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NIGHTMARE     TALES 


The  Aryan  Theosophical  Press 
Point  Loma,  California 


Nightmare  Tales 


By 


H.      P .      BLAVATSKY 


The  Aryan  Theosophical  Press 

Point  Loma,  California, 

U.  S.  A. 

1907 


r 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Bewitched  Life i 

The  Cave,  of  the  Echoes 6$ 

The  Luminous  Shield 81 

From  the  Polar  Lands 95 

The  Ensouled  Violin 103 


192379 


A     BEWITCHED      LIFE 


f  UNIVERSITY 


A   BEWITCHED    LIFE 

(As  Narrated  by  a  Quill  Pen) 

Introduction 

T  was  a  dark,  chilly  night  in  September, 
1884.     A  heavy  gloom  had  descended 

over  the  streets  of  A ,  a  small  town 

on  the  Rhine,  and  was  hanging  like  a 
black  funeral-pall  over  the  dull 
factory  burgh.  The  greater  number 
of  its  inhabitants,  wearied  by  their 
long  day's  work,  had  hours  before 
retired  to  stretch  their  tired  limbs, 
and  lay  their  aching  heads  upon 
their  pillows.  All  was  quiet  in  the 
large  house ;  all  was  quiet  in  the 
deserted  streets. 
I  too  was  lying  in  my  bed  ;  alas,  not  one  of  rest,  but 
of  pain  and  sickness,  to  which  I  had  been  confined 
for  some  days.  So  still  was  everything  in  the  house, 
that,  as  Longfellow  has  it,  its  stillness  seemed  almost 
audible.     I  could  plainly  hear  the  murmur  of  the  blood, 


2  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

as  it  rushed  through  my  aching  body,  producing  that 
monotonous  singing  so  familiar  to  one  who  lends  a 
watchful  ear  to  silence.  I  had  listened  to  it  until,  in  my 
nervous  imagination,  it  had  grown  into  the  sound  of  a 

distant  cataract,  the  fall  of  mighty  waters 

when,  suddenly  changing  its  character,  the  ever  growing 
"  singing "  merged  into  other  and  far  more  welcome 
sounds.  It  was  the  low,  and  at  first  scarce  audible, 
whisper  of  a  human  voice.  It  approached,  and  gradually 
strengthening  seemed  to  speak  in  my  very  ear.  Thus 
sounds  a  voice  speaking  across  a  blue  quiescent  lake,  in 
one  of  those  wondrously  acoustic  gorges  of  the  snow- 
capped mountains,  where  the  air  is  so  pure  that  a  word 
pronounced  half  a  mile  off  seems  almost  at  the  elbow. 
Yes  ;  it  was  the  voice  of  one  whom  to  know  is  to  rever- 
ence ;  of  one,  to  me,  owing  to  many  mystic  associations, 
most  dear  and  holy ;  a  voice  familiar  for  long  years  and 
ever  welcome ;  doubly  so  in  hours  of  mental  or  physical 
suffering,  for  it  always  brings  with  it  a  ray  of  hope  and 
consolation. 

"Courage,"  it  whispered  in  gentle,  mellow  tones. 
"Think  of  the  days  passed  by  you  in  sweet  associations  ; 
of  the  great  lessons  received  of  Nature's  truths;  of  the 
many  errors  of  men  concerning  these  truths  ;  and  try  to 
add  to  them  the  experience  of  a  night  in  this  city.  Let 
the  narrative  of  a  strange  life,  that  will  interest  you,  help 
to  shorten  the  hours  of  suffering.  .  .  Give  your  atten- 
tion.    Look  yonder  before  you ! " 

"  Yonder  "  meant  the  clear,  large  windows  of  an  empty 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  street  of  the 
German  town.  They  faced  my  own  in  almost  a  straight 
line  across  the  street,  and  my  bed  faced  the  windows  of 
my  sleeping  room.  Obedient  to  the  suggestion,  I  directed 
my  gaze  towards  them,  and  what  I  saw  made  me  for  the 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  3 

time  being  forget  the  agony  of  .'he  pain  that  racked  my 
swollen  arm  and  rheumatical  body. 

Over  the  windows  was  creeping  a  mist ;  a  dense,  heavy, 
serpentine,  whitish  mist,  that  looked  like  the  huge 
shadow  of  a  gigantic  boa  slowly  uncoiling  its  body. 
Gradually  it  disappeared,  to  leave  a  lustrous  light,  soft 
and  silvery,  as  though  the  window-panes  behind  reflected 
a  thousand  moonbeams,  a  tropical  star-lit  sky — first  from 
outside,  then  from  within  the  empty  rooms.  Next  I  saw 
the  mist  elongating  itself  and  throwing,  as  it  were,  a  fairy 
bridge  across  the  street  from  the  bewitched  windows  to 
my  own  balcony,  nay  to  my  very  own  bed.  As  I  con- 
tinued gazing,  the  wall  and  windows  and  the  opposite 
house  itself,  suddenly  vanished.  The  space  occupied  by 
the  empty  rooms  had  changed  into  the  interior  of  another 
smaller  room,  in  what  I  knew  to  be  a  Swiss  chalet — into 
a  study,  whose  old,  dark  walls  were  covered  from  floor  to 
ceiling  with  book  shelves  on  which  were  many  antiquated 
folios,  as  well  as  works  of  a  more  recent  date.  In  the 
center  stood  a  large  old-fashioned  table,  littered  over 
with  manuscripts  and  writing  materials.  Before  it,  quill- 
pen  in  hand,  sat  an  old  man;  a  grim-looking,  skeleton- 
like personage,  with  a  face  so  thin,  so  pale,  yellow  and 
emaciated,  that  the  light  of  the  solitary  little  student's 
lamp  was  reflected  in  two  shining  spots  on  his  high 
cheek-bones,  as  though  they  were  carved  out  of  ivory. 

As  I  tried  to  get  a  better  view  of  him  by  slowly  raising 
myself  upon  my  pillows,  the  whole  vision,  chalet  and 
study,  desk,  books  and  scribe,  seemed  to  flicker  and 
move.  Once  set  in  motion  they  approached  nearer  and 
nearer,  until,  gliding  noiselessly  along  the  fleecy  bridge 
of  clouds  across  the  street,  they  floated  through  the 
closed  windows  into  my  room  and  finally  seemed  to 
settle  beside  my  bed. 


NIGHTMARE   TALES 


"I  NOTICED  A  LIGHT  FLASHING  FROM  UNDER  HIS  PEN,  A 
BRIGHT  COLORED  SPARK  THAT  BECAME  INSTANTANEOUSLY 
A     SOUND.        IT     WAS     THE     SMALL     VOICE     OF     THE      QUILL." 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  5 

".Listen  to  what  he  thinks  and  is  going  to  write" — said 
in  soothing  tones  the  same  familiar,  far  off,  and  yet  near 
voice.  "  Thus  you  will  hear  a  narrative,  the  telling  of 
which  may  help  to  shorten  the  long  sleepless  hours,  and 
even  make  you  forget  for  a  while  your  pain.  .  .  Try!" 
— it  added,  using  the  well-known  Rosicrucian  and  Kaba- 
listic  formula. 

I  tried,  doing  as  I  was  bid.  I  centered  all  my  attention 
on  the  solitary  laborious  figure  that  I  saw  before  me,  but 
which  did  not  see  me.  At  first,  the  noise  of  the  quill- 
pen  with  which  the  old  man  was  writing,  suggested  to 
my  mind  nothing  more  than  a  low  whispered  murmur 
of  a  nondescript  nature.  Then,  gradually,  my  ear 
caught  the  indistinct  words  of  a  faint  and  distant  voice, 
and  I  thought  the  figure  before  me,  bending  over  its 
manuscript,  was  reading  its  tale  aloud  instead  of  writing 
it.  But  I  soon  found  out  my  error.  For  casting  my  gaze 
at  the  old  scribe's  face,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  lips 
were  compressed  and  motionless,  and  the  voice  too  thin 
and  shrill  to  be  his  voice.  Stranger  still,  at  every  word 
traced  by  the  feeble,  aged  hand,  I  noticed  a  light  flashing 
from  under  his  pen,  a  bright  colored  spark  that  became 
instantaneously  a  sound,  or — what  is  the  same  thing — it 
seemed  to  do  so  to  my  inner  perceptions.  It  was  indeed 
the  small  voice  of  the  quill  that  I  heard,  though  scribe 
and  pen  were  at  the  time,  perchance,  hundreds  of  miles 
away  from  Germany.  Such  things  will  happen  occa- 
sionally, especially  at  night,  beneath  whose  starry  shade, 
as  Byron  tells  us,  we 

.     .     .     learn  the  language  of  another  world     .     .     . 

However  it  may  be,  the  words  uttered  by  the  quill 
remained  in  my  memory  for  days  after.  Nor  had  I  any 
great  difficulty  in  retaining  them,  for  when  I  sat  down  to 


O  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

record  the  story,  I  found  it,  as  usual,  indelibly  impressed 
on  the  astral  tablets  before  my  inner  eye. 

Thus,  I  had  but  to  copy  it  and  so  give  it  as  I  received 
it.  I  failed  to  learn  the  name  of  the  unknown  nocturnal 
writer.  Nevertheless,  though  the  reader  may  prefer  to 
regard  the  whole  story  as  one  made  up  for  the  occasion, 
a  dream,  perhaps,  still  its  incidents  will,  I  hope,  prove 
none  the  less  interesting. 


The   Stranger's   Story 

My  birth-place  is  a  small  mountain  hamlet,  a  cluster  of 
Swiss  cottages,  hidden  deep  in  a  sunny  nook,  between 
two  tumble-down  glaciers  and  a  peak  covered  with  eter- 
nal snows.  Thither,  thirty-seven  years  ago,  I  returned 
— crippled  mentally  and  physically — to  die,  if  death 
would  only  have  me.  The  pure  invigorating  air  of 
my  birth-place  decided  otherwise.  I  am  still  alive ; 
perhaps  for  the  purpose  of  giving  evidence  to  facts  I 
have  kept  profoundly  secret  from  all — a  tale  of  horror 
I  would  rather  hide  than  reveal.  The  reason  for  this 
unwillingness  on  my  part  is  due  to  my  early  education, 
and  to  subsequent  events  that  gave  the  lie  to  my  most 
cherished  prejudices.  Some  people  might  be  inclined 
to  regard  these  events  as  providential  :  I,  however,  be- 
lieve in  no  Providence,  and  yet  am  unable  to  attribute 
them  to  mere  chance.  I  connect  them  as  the  cease- 
less evolution  of  effects,  engendered  by  certain  direct 
causes,  with  one  primary  and  fundamental  cause,  from 


A    BEWITCH KD   LIFE  7 

which  ensued  all  that  followed.  A  feeble  old  man  am 
I  now,  yet  physical  weakness  has  in  no  way  impaired 
my  mental  faculties.  I  remember  the  smallest  details 
of  that  terrible  cause,  which  engendered  such  fatal 
results.  It  is  these  which  furnish  me  with  an  addi- 
tional proof  of  the  actual  existence  of  one  whom  I 
fain  would  regard — oh,  that  I  could  do  so ! — as  a  crea- 
ture born  of  my  fancy,  the  evanescent  production  of  a 
feverish,  horrid  dream  !  Oh  that  terrible,  mild  and  all- 
forgiving,  that  saintly  and  respected  Being !  It  was 
that  paragon  of  all  the  virtues  who  embittered  my 
whole  existence.  It  is  he,  who,  pushing  me  violently 
out  of  the  monotonous  but  secure  groove  of  daily  life, 
was  the  first  to  force  upon  me  the  certitude  of  a  life 
hereafter,  thus  adding  an  additional  horror  to  one 
already  great  enough. 

With  a  view  to  a  clearer  comprehension  of  the  situa- 
ation,  I  must  interrupt  these  recollections  with  a  few 
words  about  myself.  Oh  how,  if  I  could,  would  I  ob- 
literate that  hated  Self! 

Born  in  Switzerland,  of  French  parents,  who  centered 
the  whole  world-wisdom  in  the  literary  trinity  of  Voltaire, 
J.  J.  Rousseau  and  D'Holbach,  and  educated  in  a  German 
university,  I  grew  up  a  thorough  materialist,  a  confirmed 
atheist.  I  could  never  have  even  pictured  to  myself  any 
beings — least  of  all  a  Being — above  or  even  outside  visible 
nature,  as  distinguished  from  her.  Hence  I  regarded 
everything  that  could  not  be  brought  under  the  strictest 
analysis  of  the  physical  senses  as  a  mere  chimera.  A 
soul,  I  argued,  even  supposing  man  has  one,  must  be 
material.  According  to  Origen's  definition,  incorporeiis* 
— the  epithet  he  gave  to  his  God — signifies  a  substance 

*  do"(OjU.aT05. 


8  NIGHTMARE    TALKS 

only  more  subtle  than  that  of  physical  bodies,  of  which, 
at  best,  we  can  form  no  definite  idea.  How  then  can 
that,  of  which  our  senses  cannot  enable  us  to  obtain  any 
clear  knowledge,  how  can  that  make  itself  visible  or 
produce  any  tangible  manifestations  ? 

Accordingly,  I  received  the  tales  of  nascent  Spiritual- 
ism with  a  feeling  of  utter  contempt,  and  regarded  the 
overtures  made  by  certain  priests  with  derision,  often 
akin  to  anger.  And  indeed  the  latter  feeling  has  never 
entirely  abandoned  me. 

Pascal,  in  the  eighth  Act  of  his  "Thoughts,"  confesses 
to  a  most  complete  incertitude  upon  the  existence  of  God. 
Throughout  my  life,  I  too  professed  a  complete  certitude 
as  to  the  non-existence  of  any  such  extra-cosmic  being, 
and  repeated  with  that  great  thinker  the  memorable 
words  in  which  he  tells  us :  "I  have  examined  if  this 
God  of  whom  all  the  world  speaks  might  not  have  left 
some  marks  of  himself.  I  look  everywhere,  and  every- 
where I  see  nothing  but  obscurity.  Nature  offers  me 
nothing  that  may  not  be  a  matter  of  doubt  and  in- 
quietude." Nor  have  I  found  to  this  day  anything  that 
might  unsettle  me  in  precisely  similar  and  even  stronger 
feelings.  I  have  never  believed,  nor  shall  I  ever  believe, 
in  a  Supreme  Being.  But  at  the  potentialities  of  man, 
proclaimed  far  and  wide  in  the  East,  powers  so  developed 
in  some  persons  as  to  make  them  virtually  Gods,  at  them 
I  laugh  no  more.  My  whole  broken  life  is  a  protest 
against  such  negation.  I  believe  in  such  phenomena, 
and — I  curse  them,  whenever  they  come,  and  by  what- 
soever means  generated. 

On  the  death  of  my  parents,  owing  to  an  unfortunate 
lawsuit,  I  lost  the  greater  part  of  my  fortune,  and  re- 
solved— for  the  sake  of  those  I  loved  best,  rather  than 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  9 

for  my  own — to  make  another  for  myself.  My  elder 
sister,  whom  I  adored,  had  married  a  poor  man.  I 
accepted  the  offer  of  a  rich  Hamburg  firm  and  sailed 
for  Japan  as  its  junior  partner. 

For  several  years  my  business  went  on  successfully. 
I  got  into  the  confidence  of  many  influential  Japanese, 
through  whose  protection  I  was  enabled  to  travel  and 
transact  business  in  many  localities,  which,  in  those 
days  especially,  were  not  easily  accessible  to  foreigners. 
Indifferent  to  every  religion,  I  became  interested  in  the 
philosophy  of  Buddhism,  the  only  religious  system  I 
thought  worthy  of  being  called  philosophical.  Thus,  in 
my  moments  of  leisure,  I  visited  the  most  remarkable 
temples  of  Japan,  the  most  important  and  curious  of  the 
ninety-six  Buddhist  monasteries  of  Kioto.  I  have  ex- 
amined in  turn  Day-Bootzoo,  with  its  gigantic  bell  ; 
Tzeonene,  Enarino-Yassero,  Kie-Missoo,  Higadzi-Hong- 
Vonsi,  and  many  other  famous  temples. 

Several  years  passed  away,  and  during  that  whole 
period  I  was  not  cured  of  my  scepticism,  nor  did  I  ever 
contemplate  having  my  opinions  on  this  subject  altered. 
I  derided  the  pretentions  of  the  Japanese  bonzes  and 
ascetics,  as  I  had  those  of  Christian  priests  and  Euro- 
pean Spiritualists.  I  could  not  believe  in  the  acquisition 
of  powers  unknown  to,  and  never  studied  by,  men  of 
science ;  hence  I  scoffed  at  all  such  ideas.  The  super- 
stitious and  atrabilious  Buddhist,  teaching  us  to  shun 
the  pleasures  of  life,  to  put  to  rout  one's  passions,  to 
render  oneself  insensible  alike  to  happiness  and  suffer- 
ing, in  order  to  acquire  such  chimerical  powers — seemed 
supremely  ridiculous  in  my  eyes. 

On  a  day  for  ever  memorable  to  me — a  fatal  day — I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  venerable  and  learned  Bonze, 
a  Japanese  priest,  named  Tamoora  Hideyeri.     I  met  him 


JO  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

at  the  foot  of  the  golden  Kwon-On,  and  from  that 
moment  he  became  my  best  and  most  trusted  friend. 
Notwithstanding  my  great  and  genuine  regard  for  him, 
however,  whenever  a  good  opportunity  was  offered  I 
never  failed  to  mock  his  religious  convictions,  thereby 
very  often  hurting  his  feelings. 

But  my  old  friend  was  as  meek  and  forgiving  as  any 
true  Buddhist's  heart  might  desire.  He  never  resented 
my  impatient  sarcasms,  even  when  they  were,  to  say  the 
least,  of  equivocal  propriety,  and  generally  limited  his 
replies  to  the  "wait  and  see"  kind  of  protest.  Nor  could 
he  be  brought  to  seriously  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my 
denial  of  the  existence  of  any  God  or  Gods.  The  full 
meaning  of  the  terms  "  atheism  "  and  "  scepticism  "  was 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  his  otherwise  extremely 
intellectual  and  acute  mind.  Like  certain  reverential 
Christians,  he  seemed  incapable  of  realizing  that  any 
man  of  sense  should  prefer  the  wise  conclusions  arrived 
at  by  philosophy  and  modern  science  to  a  ridiculous 
belief  in  an  invisible  world  full  of  Gods  and  spirits,  dzins 
and  demons.  |  "  Man  is  a  spiritual  being,"  he  insisted, 
"who  returns  to  earth  more  than  once,  and  is  rewarded 
or  punished  in  the  between  times."  /  The  proposition 
that  man  is  nothing  else  but  a  heap  of  organized  dust, 
was  beyond  him.  Like  Jeremy  Collier,  he  refused  to 
admit  that  he  was  no  better  than  "  a  stalking  machine,  a 
speaking  head  without  a  soul  in  it,"  whose  "  thoughts 
are  all  bound  by  the  laws  of  motion."  "  For,"  he  argued, 
"  if  my  actions  were,  as  you  say,  prescribed  beforehand, 
and  I  had  no  more  liberty  or  free  will  to  change  the 
course  of  my  action  than  the  running  waters  of  the  river 
yonder,  then  the  glorious  doctrine  of  Karma,  of  merit 
and  demerit,  would  be  foolishness  indeed." 

Thus   the   whole  of  my   hyper-metaphysical   friend's 


A    BEWITCHED    I  JFK  I  I 

ontology  rested  on  the  shaky  superstructure  of  metem- 
psychosis, of  a  fancied  "  just  "  Law  of  Retribution,  and 
other  such  equally  absurd  dreams. 

"  We  cannot,"  said  he  paradoxically  one  day,  "hope to 
live  hereafter  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  our  consciousness, 
unless  we  have  built  for  it  beforehand  a  firm  and  solid 
foundation  of  spirituality.  .  .  Nay,  laugh  not,  friend 
of  no  faith,"  he  meekly  pleaded,  "  but  rather  think  and 
reflect  on  this.  One  who  has  never  taught  himself  to 
live  in  Spirit  during  his  conscious  and  responsible  life 
on  earth,  can  hardly  hope  to  enjoy  a  sentient  existence 
after  death,  when,  deprived  of  his  body,  he  is  limited  to 
that  Spirit  alone." 

"  What  can  you  mean  by  life  in  Spirit  ?" — I  inquired. 

"  Life  on  a  spiritual  plane  ;  that  which  the  Buddhists 
call  Tushita  Devaloka  (Paradise).  Man  can  create  such 
a  blissful  existence  for  himself  between  two  births,  by 
the  gradual  transference  on  to  that  plane  of  all  the 
faculties  which  during  his  sojourn  on  earth  manifest 
through  his  organic  body  and,  as  you  call  it,  animal 
brain."     .     .     . 

"  How  absurd  !     And  how  can  man  do  this  ?  " 

"Contemplation  and  a  strong  desire  to  assimilate  the' 
blessed  Gods,  will  enable  him  to  do  so." 

"  And  if  man  refuses  this  intellectual  occupation,  by 
which  you  mean,  I  suppose,  the  fixing  of  the  eyes  on  the 
tip  of  his  nose,  what  becomes  of  him  after  the  death  of 
his  body  ?  "  was  my  mocking  question. 

"  He  will  be  dealt  with  according  to  the  prevailing 
state  of  his  consciousness,  of  which  there  are  many 
grades.  At  best — immediate  rebirth  ;  at  worst — the  state 
of  avitchi,  a  mental  hell.     Yet  one  need  not  be  an  ascetic 


•  2  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

to  assimilate  spiritual  life  which  will  extend  to  the 
hereafter.  All  that  is  required  is  to  try  to  approach 
Spirit." 

"How  so?  Even  when  disbelieving  in  it?" — I  re- 
joined. 

"  Even  so  !  One  may  disbelieve  and  yet  harbor  in 
one's  nature  room  for  doubt,  however  small  that  room 
may  be,  and  thus  try  one  day,  were  it  but  for  one 
moment,  to  open  the  door  of  the  inner  temple ;  and  this 
will  prove  sufficient  for  the  purpose." 

"  You  are  decidedly  poetical,  and  paradoxical  to  boot, 
reverend  sir.  Will  you  kindly  explain  to  me  a  little 
more  of  the  mystery  ?  " 

"There  is  none;  still  I  am  willing.  Suppose  for  a 
moment  that  some  unknown  temple  to  which  you  have 
never  been  before,  and  the  existence  of  which  you  think 
you  have  reasons  to  deny,  is  the  'spiritual  plane'  of 
which  I  am  speaking.  Some  one  takes  you  by  the  hand 
and  leads  you  towards  its  entrance,  curiosity  makes  you 
open  its  door  and  look  within.  By  this  simple  act,  by 
entering  it  for  one  second,  you  have  established  an  ever- 
lasting connexion  between  your  consciousness  and  the 
temple.  You  cannot  deny  its  existence  any  longer,  nor 
obliterate  the  fact  of  your  having  entered  it.  And  ac- 
cording to  the  character  and  the  variety  of  your  work, 
within  its  holy  precincts,  so  will  you  live  in  it  after  your 
consciousness  is  severed  from  its  dwelling  of  flesh." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  And  what  has  my  after-death 
consciousness— if  such  a  thing  exists — to  do  with  the 
temple  ?  " 

"  It  has  everything  to  do  with  it,"  solemnly  rejoined 
the  old  man.  "  There  can  be  no  self-consciousness  after 
death  outside  the  temple  of  spirit.  That  which  you  will 
have  done  within  its  plane  will  alone  survive.     All  the 


A    BEWITCHED    LlFK  I  3 

rest  is  false  and  an  illusion.  It  is  doomed  to  perish  in 
the  Ocean  of  Maya. 

Amused  at  the  idea  of  living  outside  one's  body,  I 
urged  on  my  old  friend  to  tell  me  more.  Mistaking  my 
meaning,  the  venerable  man  willingly  consented. 

Tamoora  Hideyeri  belonged  to  the  great  temple  of 
Tzi-Onene,  a  Buddhist  monastery,  famous  not  only  in 
all  Japan,  but  also  throughout  Tibet  and  China.  No 
other  is  so  venerated  in  Kioto.  Its  monks  belong  to  the 
sect  of  Dzeno-doo,  and  are  considered  as  the  most  learned 
among  the  many  erudite  fraternities.  They  are,  more- 
over, closely  connected  and  allied  with  the  Yamabooshi 
(the  ascetics,  or  hermits),  who  follow  the  doctrines  of 
Lao-tze.  No  wonder,  that  at  the  slightest  provocation  on 
my  part  the  priest  flew  into  the  highest  metaphysics, 
hoping  thereby  to  cure  me  of  my  infidelity. 

No  use  repeating  here  the  long  rigmarole  of  the 
most  hopelessly  involved  and  incomprehensible  of  all 
doctrines.  According  to  his  ideas,  we  have  to  train 
ourselves  for  spirituality  in  another  world — as  for  gym- 
nastics. Carrying  on  the  analogy  between  the  temple 
and  the  "  spiritual  plane  "  he  tried  to  illustrate  his  idea. 
He  had  himself  worked  in  the  temple  of  Spirit  two- 
thirds  of  his  life,  and  given  several  hours  daily  to 
"contemplation."  Thus  he  knew  (?!)  that  after  he  had 
laid  aside  his  mortal  casket,  "  a  mere  illusion,"  he  ex- 
plained— he  would  in  his  spiritual  consciousness  live 
over  again  every  feeling  of  ennobling  joy  and  divine 
bliss  he  had  ever  had,  or  ought  to  have  had — only  a 
hundred-fold  intensified.  His  work  on  the  spirit-plane 
had  been  considerable,  he  said,  and  he  hoped,  there- 
fore, that  the  wages  of  the  laborer  would  prove  pro- 
portionate. 

"  But   suppose   the   laborer,  as    in   the  example   you 


14  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

have  just  brought  forward  in  my  case,  should  have  no 
more  than  opened  the  temple  door  out  of  mere  curiosity ; 
had  onby  peeped  into  the  sanctury  never  to  set  his  foot 
therein  again.     What  then?" 

"  Then,"  he  answered,  "  you  would  have  only  this 
short  minute  to  record  in  your  future  self-consciousness 
and  no  more.  Our  life  hereafter  records  and  repeats 
but  the  impressions  and  feelings  we  have  had  in  our 
spiritual  experiences  and  nothing  else.  Thus,  if  instead 
of  reverence  at  the  moment  of  entering  the  abode  of 
Spirit,  you  had  been  harboring  in  your  heart  anger, 
jealousy  or  grief,  then  your  future  spiritual  life  would  be 
a  sad  one,  in  truth.  There  would  be  nothing  to  record, 
save  the  opening  of  a  door  in  a  fit  of  bad  temper." 

"  How  then  could  it  be  repeated  ?  " — I  insisted,  highly 
amused.  "  What  do  you  suppose  I  would  be  doing 
before  incarnating  again?" 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  weighing 
every  word — "  in  that  case,  you  would  have,  I  fear,  only  to 
open  and  shut  the  temple  door,  over  and  over  again,  during 
a  period  which,  however  short,  woidd  seem  to  you  an 
eternity" 

This  kind  of  after-death  occupation  appeared  to  me, 
at  that  time,  so  grotesque  in  its  sublime  absurdity,  that  I 
was  seized  with  an  almost  inextinguishable  fit  of  laughter. 

My  venerable  friend  looked  considerably  dismayed  at 
such  a  result  of  his  metaphysical  instruction.  He  had 
evidently  not  expected  such  hilarity.  However,  he  said 
nothing,  but  only  sighed  and  gazed  at  me  with  increased 
benevolence  and  pity  shining  in  his  small  black  eyes. 

"  Pray  excuse  my  laughter,"  I  apologized.  "  But 
really,  now,  you  cannot  seriously  mean  to  tell  me  that 
the  '  spiritual  state  '  you  advocate  and  so  firmly  believe 
in,  consists  only  in  aping  certain  things  we  do  in  life?" 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  I  $ 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  not  aping,  but  only  intensifying  their 
repetition  ;  filling  the  gaps  that  were  unjustly  left  un- 
filled during  life  in  the  fruition  of  our  acts  and  deeds, 
and  of  everything  performed  on  the  spiritual  plane  of 
the  one  real  state.  What  I  said  was  an  illustration,  and 
no  doubt  for  you,  who  seem  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
mysteries  of  Soul-  Vision,  not  a  very  intelligible  one.  It 
is  myself  who  am  to  be  blamed.  .  .  .  What  I  sought 
to  impress  upon  you  was  that,  as  the  spiritual  state  of 
our  consciousness  liberated  from  its  body  is  but  the 
fruition  of  every  spiritual  act  performed  during  life, 
where  an  act  had  been  barren,  there  could  be  no  results 
expected — save  the  repetition  of  that  act  itself.  This  is 
all.  I  pray  you  may  be  spared  such  fruitless  deeds  and 
finally  made  to  see  certain  truths."  And  passing  through 
the  usual  Japanese  courtesies  of  taking  leave,  the  excel- 
lent man  departed. 

Alas,  alas !  had  I  but  known  at  the  time  what  I  have 
learned  since,  how  little  would  I  have  laughed,  and  how 
much  more  would  I  have  learned  ! 

But  as  the  matter  stood,  the  more  personal  affection 
and  respect  I  felt  for  him,  the  less  could  I  become  recon- 
ciled to  his  wild  ideas  about  an  after-life,  and  especially 
as  to  the  acquisition  by  some  men  of  supernatural  powers. 
I  felt  particularly  disgusted  with  his  reverence  for  the 
Yamabooshi,  the  allies  of  every  Buddhist  sect  in  the 
land.  Their  claims  to  the  "  miraculous"  were  simply 
odious  to  my  notions.  To  hear  every  Jap  I  knew  at 
Kioto,  even  to  my  own  partner,  the  shrewdest  of  all  the 
business  men  I  had  come  across  in  the  East — men- 
tioning these  followers  of  Lao-tze  with  downcast  eyes, 
reverentially  folded  hands,  and  affirmations  of  their  pos- 
sessing "great"  and  "  wonderful "  gifts,  was  more  than 
I  was  prepared  to  patiently  tolerate  in  those  days.     And 


I  6  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

who  were  they,  after  all,  these  great  magicians  with 
their  ridiculous  pretensions  to  super-mundaiie  know- 
ledge ;  these  "  holy  beggars "  who,  as  I  then  thought, 
purposely  dwell  in  the  recesses  of  unfrequented  moun- 
tains and  on  unapproachable  craggy  steeps,  so  as  the 
better  to  afford  no  chance  to  curious  intruders  of  find- 
ing them  out  and  watching  them  in  their  own  dens  ? 
Simply  impudent  fortune-tellers,  Japanese  gypsies  who 
sell  charms  and  talismans,  and  no  better.  In  answer  to 
those  who  sought  to  assure  me  that  though  the  Yama- 
booshi  lead  a  mysterious  life,  admitting  none  of  the 
profane  to  their  secrets,  they  still  do  accept  pupils,  how- 
ever difficult  it  is  for  one  to  become  their  disciple,  and 
that  thus  they  have  living  witnesses  to  the  great  purity 
and  sancity  of  their  lives,  in  answer  to  such  affirmations 
I  opposed  the  strongest  negation  and  stood  firmly  by  it. 
I  insulted  both  masters  and  pupils,  classing  them  under 
the  same  category  of  fools,  when  not  knaves,  and  I  went 
so  far  as  to  include  in  this  number  the  Sintos.  Now 
Sintoism  or  Sin-Syu,  "  faith  in  the  Gods,  and  in  the  way 
to  the  Gods,"  that  is,  belief  in  the  communication  be- 
tween these  creatures  and  men,  is  a  kind  of  worship  of 
nature-spirits,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  miserably 
absurd.  And  by  placing  the  Sintos  among  the  fools  and 
knaves  of  other  sects,  I  gained  many  enemies.  For  the 
Sinto  Kanusi  (spiritual  teachers)  are  looked  upon  as  the 
highest  in  the  upper  classes  of  Society,  the  Mikado  him- 
self being  at  the  head  of  their  hierarchy  and  the  members 
of  the  sect  belonging  to  the  most  cultured  and  educated 
men  in  Japan.  These  Kanusi  of  the  Sinto  form  no 
caste  or  class  apart,  nor  do  they  pass  any  ordination — at 
any  rate  none  known  to  outsiders.  And  as  they  claim 
publicly  no  special  privilege  or  powers,  even  their  dress 
being  in  no  wise  different  from  that  of  the  laity,  but  are 


[  UNIV 

A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  17 

simply  in  the  world's  opinion  professors  and  students  of 
occult  and  spiritual  sciences,  I  very  often  came  in  contact 
with  them  without  in  the  least  suspecting  that  I  was  in 
the  presence  of  such  personages. 


II 

The  Mysterious  Visitor 

Years  passed  ;  and  as  time  went  by,  my  ineradicable 
scepticism  grew  stronger  and  waxed  fiercer  every  day. 
I  have  already  mentioned  an  elder  and  much-beloved 
sister,  my  only  surviving  relative.  She  had  married 
and  had  lately  gone  to  live  at  Nuremberg.  I  regarded 
her  with  feelings  more  filial  than  fraternal,  and  her 
children  were  as  dear  to  me  as  might  have  been  my 
own.  At  the  time  of  the  great  catastrophe  that  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days  had  made  my  father  lose  his  large 
fortune,  and  my  mother  break  her  heart,  she  it  was, 
that  sweet  big  sister  of  mine,  who  had  made  herself  of 
her  own  accord  the  guardian  angel  of  our  ruined  family. 
Out  of  her  great  love  for  me,  her  younger  brother,  for 
whom  she  attempted  to  replace  the  professors  that  could 
no  longer  be  afforded,  she  had  renounced  her  own  hap- 
piness. She  sacrificed  herself  and  the  man  she  loved, 
by  indefinitely  postponing  their  marriage,  in  order  to 
help  our  father  and  chiefly  myself  by  her  undivided 
devotion.  And,  oh,  how  I  loved  and  reverenced  her, 
time  but  strengthening  this  earliest  family  affection  ! 
They  who  maintain  that  no  atheist,  as  such,  can  be  a 
true  friend,  an  affectionate  relative,  or  a  loyal  subject, 


I  »  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

utter — whether  consciously  or  unconsciously — the  great- 
est calumny  and  lie.  To  say  that  a  materialist  grows 
hard-hearted  as  he  grows  older,  that  he  cannot  love  as 
a  believer  does,  is  simply  the  greatest  fallacy. 

There  may  be  such  exceptional  cases  it  is  true,  but 
these  are  found  only  occasionally  in  men  who  are  even 
more  selfish  than  they  are  sceptical,  or  vulgarly  worldly. 
But  when  a  man  who  is  kindly  disposed  in  his  nature, 
for  no  selfish  motives  but  because  of  reason  and  love  of 
truth,  becomes  what  is  called  atheistical,  he  is  only 
strengthened  in  his  family  affections,  and  in  his  sym- 
pathies with  his  fellow  men.  All  his  emotions,  all  the 
ardent  aspirations  towards  the  unseen  and  unreachable, 
all  the  love  which  he  would  otherwise  have  uselessly  be- 
stowed on  a  suppositional  heaven  and  its  God,  become 
now  centered  with  tenfold  force  upon  his  loved  ones  and 
mankind.     Indeed,  the  atheist's  heart  alone — 

can  know, 

What  secret  tides  of  still  enjoyment  flow 
When  brothers  love. 

It  was  such  holy  fraternal  love  that  led  me  also  to 
sacrifice  my  comfort  and  personal  welfare  to  secure  her 
happiness,  the  felicity  of  her  who  had  been  more  than  a 
mother  to  me.  I  was  a  mere  youth  when  I  left  home  for 
Hamburg.  There,  working  with  all  the  desperate  ear- 
nestness of  a  man  who  has  but  one  noble  object  in  view 
— to  relieve  suffering,  and  help  those  whom  he  loves — 
I  very  soon  secured  the  confidence  of  my  employers, 
who  raised  me  in  consequence  to  the  high  post  of  trust 
I  always  enjoyed.  My  first  real  pleasure  and  reward  in 
life  was  to  see  my  sister  married  to  the  man  she  had 
sacrificed  for  my  sake,  and  to  help  them  in  their  struggle 
for  existence.  So  purifying  and  unselfish  was  this  affec- 
tion of  mine  for  her  that  when  it  came  to  be  shared 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  1 9 

among  her  children,  instead  of  losing  in  intensity  by 
such  division,  it  seemed  only  to  grow  the  stronger. 
Born  with  the  potentiality  of  the  warmest  family  affec- 
tion in  me,  the  devotion  for  my  sister  was  so  great,  that 
the  thought  of  burning  that  sacred  fire  of  love  before 
any  idol,  save  that  of  herself  and  family,  never  entered 
my  head.  This  was  the  only  church  I  recognized,  the 
only  church  wherein  I  worshipped  at  the  altar  of  holy 
family  affection.  In  fact  this  large  family  of  eleven 
persons,  including  her  husband,  was  the  only  tie  that 
attached  me  to  Europe.  Twice  during  a  period  of  nine 
years,  had  I  crossed  the  ocean  with  the  sole  object  of 
seeing  and  pressing  these  dear  ones  to  my  heart.  I  had 
no  other  business  in  the  West ;  and  having  performed 
this  pleasant  duty,  I  returned  each  time  to  Japan  to 
work  and  toil  for  them.  For  their  sake  I  remained  a 
bachelor,  that  the  wealth  I  might  acquire  should  go  un- 
divided to  them  alone. 

We  had  always  corresponded  as  regularly  as  the  long 
transit  of  the  then  very  irregular  service  of  the  mail- 
boats  would  permit.  But  suddenly  there  came  a  break 
in  my  letters  from  home.  For  nearly  a  year  I  received 
no  intelligence ;  and  day  by  day,  I  became  more  restless 
more  apprehensive  of  some  great  misfortune.  Vainly  I 
looked  for  a  letter,  a  simple  message  ;  and  my  efforts  to 
account  for  so  unusual  a  silence  were  fruitless. 

"  Friend,"  said  to  me  one  day  Tamoora  Hideyeri,  my 
only  confidant,  "  Friend,  consult  a  holy  Yamabooshi  and 
you  will  feel  at  rest." 

Of  course  the  offer  was  rejected  with  as  much  modera- 
tion as  I  could  command  under  the  provocation.  But, 
as  steamer  after  steamer  came  in  without  a  word  of  news, 
I  felt  a  despair  which  daily  increased  in  depth  and  fixity. 
This  finally  degenerated  into  an  irrepressible  craving,  a 


20  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

morbid  desire  to  learn — the  worst  as  I  then  thought.  I 
struggled  hard  with  the  feeling,  but  it  had  the  best  of 
me.  Only  a  few  months  before  a  complete  master  of 
myself — I  now  became  an  abject  slave  to  fear.  A  fatal- 
ist of  the  school  of  D'Holbach,  I,  who  had  always 
regarded  belief  in  the  system  of  necessity  as  being  the 
only  promoter  of  philosophical  happiness,  and  as  having 
the  most  advantageous  influence  over  human  weak- 
nesses, /  felt  a  craving  for  something  akin  to  fortune- 
telling  !  I  had  gone  so  far  as  to  forget  the  first  principle 
of  my  doctrine — the  only  one  calculated  to  calm  our 
sorrows,  to  inspire  us  with  a  useful  submission,  namely 
a  rational  resignation  to  the  decrees  of  blind  destiny, 
with  which  foolish  sensibility  causes  us  so  often  to  be 
overwhelmed — the  doctrine  that  all  is  necessary.  Yes; 
forgetting  this,  I  was  drawn  into  a  shameful,  superstitious 
longing,  a  stupid,  disgraceful  desire  to  learn — if  not  futur- 
ity, at  any  rate  that  which  was  taking  place  at  the  other 
side  of  the  globe.  My  conduct  seemed  utterly  modified, 
my  temperament  and  aspirations  wholly  changed  ;  and 
like  a  weak,  nervous  girl,  I  caught  myself  straining  my 
mind  to  the  very  verge  of  lunacy  in  an  attempt  to  look 
— as  I  had  been  told  one  could  sometimes  do — beyond 
the  oceans,  and  learn,  at  last,  the  real  cause  of  this  long, 
inexplicable  silence ! 

One  evening,  at  sunset,  my  old  friend,  the  venerable 
Bonze,  Tamoora,  appeared  on  the  verandah  of  my  low 
wooden  house.  I  had  not  visited  him  for  many  days, 
and  he  had  come  to  know  how  I  was.  I  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  once  more  sneer  at  one,  whom,  in  reality,  I 
regarded  with  most  affectionate  respect.  With  equivocal 
taste — for  which  I  repented  almost  before  the  words  had 
been  pronounced — I  inquired  of  him  why  he  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  walk  all  that  distance  when  he  might  have 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  2  1 

learned  anything  he  liked  ahout  me  by  simply  interro- 
gating a  Yamabooshi  ?  lie  seemed  a  little  hurt,  at  first; 
but  after  keenly  scrutinizing  my  dejected  face,  he  mildly 
remarked  that  he  could  only  insist  upon  what  he  had 
advised  before.  Only  one  of  that  holy  order  could  give 
me  consolation  in  my  present  state. 

From  that  instant,  an  insane  desire  possessed  me  to 
challenge  him  to  prove  his  assertions.  I  defied — I  said 
to  him — any  and  every  one  of  his  alleged  magicians  to 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  person  I  was  thinking  of,  and 
what  he  was  doing  at  that  moment.  He  quietly  answered 
that  my  desire  could  be  easily  satisfied.  There  was  a 
Yamabooshi  two  doors  from  me,  visiting  a  sick  Sinto. 
He  would  fetch  him — if  I  only  said  the  word. 

I  said  it  and  from  the  moment  of  its  utterance  my  doom 
was  sealed. 

How  shall  I  find  words  to  describe  the  scene  that 
followed  !  Twenty  minutes  after  the  desire  had  been  so 
incautiously  expressed,  an  old  Japanese,  uncommonly 
tall  and  majestic  for  one  of  that  race,  pale,  thin  and 
emaciated,  was  standing  before  me.  There,  where  I  had 
expected  to  find  servile  obsequiousness,  I  only  discerned 
an  air  of  calm  and  dignified  composure,  the  attitude  of 
one  who  knows  his  moral  superiority,  and  therefore 
scorns  to  notice  the  mistakes  of  those  who  fail  to  recog- 
nize it.  ¥©  the  somewhat  irreverent  and  mocking  ques- 
tions, which  I  put  to  him  one  after  another,  with  feverish 
eagerness,  he  made  no  reply  ;  but  gazed  on  me  in  silence 
as  a  physician  would  look  at  a  delirious  patient.  From 
the  moment  he  fixed  his  eye  on  mine,  I  felt — or  shall  I 
say,  saw — as  thouerb  it  were  a  sharp  ray  of  light,  a  thin 
silvery  thread,  shoot  out  from  the  intensely  black  and 
narrow  eyes  so  deeply  sunk  in  the  yellow  old  face.  It 
seemed  to  penetrate  into  my  brain  and  heart  like   an 


2  2  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

arrow,  and  set  to  work  to  dig  out  therefrom  every 
thought  and  feeling.  Yes  ;  I  both  saw  and  felt  it,  and 
very  soon  the  double  sensation  became  intolerable. 

To  break  the  spell  I  defied  him  to  tell  me  what  he 
had  found  in  my  thoughts.  Calmly  came  the  correct 
answer — Extreme  anxiety  for  a  female  relative,  her  hus- 
band and  children,  who  were  inhabiting  a  house  the 
correct  description  of  which  he  gave  as  though  he  knew 
it  as  well  as  myself.  I  turned  a  suspicious  eye  upon  my 
friend,  the  Bonze,  to  whose  indiscretions,  I  thought,  I 
was  indebted  for  the  quick  reply.  Remembering  how- 
ever that  Tamoora  could  know  nothing  of  the  appear- 
ance of  my  sister's  house,  that  the  Japanese  are  pro- 
verbially truthful  and,  as  friends,  faithful  to  death — I 
felt  ashamed  of  my  suspicion.  To  atone  for  it  before 
my  own  conscience  I  asked  the  hermit  whether  he  could 
tell  me  anything  of  the  present  state  of  that  beloved 
sister  of  mine.  The  foreigner — was  the  reply— would 
never  believe  in  the  words,  or  trust  to  the  knowledge  of 
any  person  but  himself.  Were  the  Yamabooshi  to  tell 
him,  the  impression  would  wear  out  hardly  a  few  hours 
later,  and  the  inquirer  find  himself  as  miserable  as  be- 
fore. There  was  but  one  means  ;  and  that  was  to  make 
the  foreigner  (myself)  see  with  his  own  eyes,  and  thus 
learn  the  truth  for  himself.  Was  the  inquirer  ready  to 
be  placed  by  a  Yamabooshi,  a  stranger  to  him,  in  the 
required  state  ? 

I  had  heard  in  Europe  of  mesmerized  somnambules 
and  pretenders  to  clairvoyance,  and  having  no  faith  in 
them,  I  had,  therefore,  nothing  against  the  process  itself. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  my  never-ceasing  mental  agony, 
I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  ridiculous  nature  of  the 
operation  I  was  willingly  submitting  to.  Nevertheless  I 
silently  bowed  consent. 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  23 

III 

Psychic  Magic 

The  old  Yamabooshi  lost  no  time.  He  looked  at  the 
setting  sun,  and  finding  probably,  the  Lord  Ten-Dzio- 
Dai-Dzio  (the  Spirit  who  darts  his  Rays)  propitious  for 
the  coming  ceremony,  he  speedily  drew  out  a  little 
bundle.  It  contained  a  small  lacquered  box,  a  piece  of 
vegetable  paper,  made  from  the  bark  of  the  mulberry 
tree,  and  a  pen,  with  which  he  traced  upon  the  paper  a 
few  sentences  in  the  Naiden  character — a  peculiar  style 
of  written  language  used  only  for  religious  and  mystical 
purposes.  Having  finished,  he  exhibited  from  under  his 
clothes  a  small  round  mirror  of  steel  of  extraordinary 
brilliancy,  and  placing  it  before  my  eyes,  asked  me  to 
look  into  it. 

I  had  not  only  heard  before  of  these  mirrors,  which 
are  frequently  used  in  the  temples,  but  I  had  often  seen 
them.  It  is  claimed  that  under  the  direction  and  will  of 
instructed  priests,  there  appear  in  them  the  Daij-Dzin, 
the  great  spirits  who  notify  the  inquiring  devotees  of 
their  fate.  I  first  imagined  that  his  intention  was  to 
evoke  such  a  spirit,  who  would  answer  my  queries. 
What  happened,  however,  was  something  of  quite  a 
different  character. 

No  sooner  had  I,  not  without  a  last  pang  of  mental 
squeamishness,  produced  by  a  deep  sense  of  my  own 
absurd  position,  touched  the  mirror,  than  I  suddenly 
felt  a  strange  sensation  in  the  arm  of  the  hand  that  held 
it.  For  a  brief  moment  I  forgot  to  "  sit  in  the  seat  of  the 
scorner"  and  failed  to  look  at  the  matter  from  a  ludicrous 


2  4  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

point  of  view.  Was  it  fear  that  suddenly  clutched  my 
brain,  for  an  instant  paralyzing  its  activity — 

that  fear 

When  the  heart  longs  to  know,  what  it  is  death  to  hear  ? 

No  ;  for  I  still  had  consciousness  enough  left  to  go  on 
persuading  myself  that  nothing  would  come  out  of  an 
experiment,  in  the  nature  of  which  no  sane  man  could 
ever  believe.  What  was  it  then,  that  crept  across  my 
brain  like  a  living  thing  of  ice,  producing  therein  a 
sensation  of  horror,  and  then  clutched  at  my  heart  as  if 
a  deadly  serpent  had  fastened  its  fangs  into  it  ?  With  a 
convulsive  jerk  of  the  hand  I  dropped  the — I  blush  to 
write  the  adjective — "  magic "  mirror,  and  could  not 
force  myself  to  pick  it  up  from  the  settee  on  which  I 
was  reclining.  For  one  short  moment  there  was  a 
terrible  struggle  between  some  undefined,  and  to  me 
utterly  inexplicable,  longing  to  look  into  the  depths  of 
the  polished  surface  of  the  mirror  and  my  pride,  the 
ferocity  of  which  nothing  seemed  capable  of  taming.  It 
was  finally  so  tamed,  however,  its  revolt  being  conquered 
by  its  own  defiant  intensity.  There  was  an  opened  novel 
lying  on  a  lacquer  table  near  the  settee,  and  as  my  eyes 
happened  to  fall  upon  its  pages,  I  read  the  words,  "  The 
veil  which  covers  futurity  is  woven  by  the  hand  of 
mercy."  This  was  enough.  That  same  pride  which 
had  hitherto  held  me  back  from  what  I  regarded  as  a 
degrading,  superstitious  experiment,  caused  me  to  chal- 
lenge my  fate.  I  picked  up  the  ominously  shining  disk 
and  prepared  to  look  into  it. 

While  I  was  examining  the  mirror,  the  Yamabooshi 
hastily  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  Bonze,  Tamoora,  at 
which  I  threw  a  furtive  and  suspicious  glance  at  both. 
I  was  wrong  once  more. 

"  The  holy  man  desires  me  to  put  you  a  question  and 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  25 

give  you  at  the  same  time  a  warning,"  remarked  the 
Bonze.  "  If  you  are  willing  to  see  for  yourself  now,  you 
will  have — under  the  penalty  of  seeing  for  ever,  in  the 
hereafter,  all  that  is  taking  place,  at  whatever  distance,  and 
that  against  your  will  or  inclinatioyi — to  submit  to  a 
regular  course  of  purification,  after  you  have  learned 
what  you  want  through  the  mirror." 

"What  is  this  course,  and  what  have  I  to  promise?" 
I  asked  defiantly. 

"  It  is  for  your  own  good.  You  must  promise  him  to 
submit  to  the  process,  lest,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he 
should  have  to  hold  himself  responsible,  before  his  own 
conscience,  for  having  made  an  irresponsible  seer  of  you. 
Will  you  do  so,  friend  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  it,  if  I  see 
anything " — I  sneeringly  replied,  adding  under  my 
breath — "something  I  doubt  a  good  deal,  so  far." 

"  Well,  you  are  warned,  friend.  The  consequences 
will  now  remain  with  yourself,"  was  the  solemn  answer. 

I  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  made  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
which  was  remarked  and  understood  by  the  Yamabooshi. 
It  was  just  seven  minutes  after  five. 

"  Define  well  in  your  mind  what  you  would  see  and 
learn,"  said  the  "  conjuror,"  placing  the  mirror  and 
paper  in  my  hands,  and  instructing  me  how  to  use  them. 

His  instructions  were  received  by  me  with  more  im- 
patience than  gratitude  ;  and  for  one  short  instant,  I 
hesitated  again.  Nevertheless  I  replied,  while  fixing  the 
mirror  : 

"  /  desire  but  one  thing — to  learn  the  reason  or  reasons 
why  my  sister  has  so  suddenly  ceased  writing  to  me."    .    .    . 

Had  I  pronounced  these  words  in  reality,  and  in  the 


26  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

hearing  of  the  two  witnesses,  or  had  I  only  thought 
them  ?  To  this  day  I  cannot  decide  the  point.  I  now 
remember  but  one  thing  distinctly:  while  I  sat  gazing  in 
the  mirror,  the  Yamabooshi  kept  gazing  at  me.  But 
whether  this  process  lasted  half  a  second  or  three  hours, 
I  have  never  since  been  able  to  settle  in  my  mind  with 
any  degree  of  satisfaction.  I  can  recall  every  detail  of 
the  scene  up  to  the  moment  when  I  took  up  the  mirror 
with  the  left  hand,  holding  the  paper  inscribed  with  the 
mystic  characters  between  the  thumb  and  finger  of  the 
right,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  seemed  to  quite  lose  con- 
sciousness of  the  surrounding  objects.  The  passage 
from  the  active  waking  state  to  one  that  I  could  com- 
pare with  nothing  I  had  ever  experienced  before,  was  so 
rapid,  that  while  my  eyes  had  ceased  to  perceive  external 
objects  and  had  completely  lost  sight  of  the  Bonze,  the 
Yamabooshi,  and  even  of  my  room,  I  could  nevertheless 
distinctly  see  the  whole  of  my  head  and  my  back,  as  I  sat 
leaning  forward  with  the  mirror  in  my  hand.  Then 
came  a  strong  sensation  of  an  involuntary  rush  forward, 
of  snappiiig  off,  so  to  say,  from  my  place — I  had  almost 
said  from  my  body.  And,  then,  while  every  one  of  my 
other  senses  had  become  totally  paralysed,  my  eyes,  as  I 
thought,  unexpectedly  caught  a  clearer  and  far  more 
vivid  glimpse  than  they  had  ever  had  in  reality,  of  my 
sister's  new  house  at  Nuremberg,  which  I  had  never 
visited  and  knew  only  from  a  sketch,  and  other  scenery 
with  which  I  had  never  been  very  familiar.  Together 
with  this,  and  while  feeling  in  my  brain  what  seemed  like 
flashes  of  a  departing  consciousness — dying  persons  must 
feel  so,  no  doubt — the  very  last,  vague  thought,  so  weak 
as  to  have  been  hardly  perceptible,  was  that  I  must  look 
very,  very  ridiculous.  .  .  .  This  feeling — for  such  it 
was  rather  than  a  thought — was  interrupted,  suddenly 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  27 

extinguished,  so  to  say,  by  a  clear  mental  vision  (I  cannot 
characterize  it  otherwise)  of  myself,  of  that  which  I 
regarded  as,  and  knew  to  be  my  body,  lying  with  ashy 
cheeks  on  the  settee,  dead  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
but  still  staring  with  the  cold  and  glassy  eyes  of  a  corpse 
into  the  mirror.  Bending  over  it,  with  his  two  emaciated 
hands  cutting  the  air  in  every  direction  over  its  white 
face,  stood  the  tall  figure  of  the  Yamabooshi,  for  whom  I 
felt  at  that  instant  an  inextinguishable,  murderous 
hatred.  As  I  was  going,  in  thought,  to  pounce  upon  the 
vile  charlatan,  my  corpse,  the  two  old  men,  the  room 
itself,  and  every  object  in  it,  trembled  and  danced  in  a 
reddish  glowing  light,  and  seemed  to  float  rapidly  away 
from  "  me."  A  few  more  grotesque,  distorted  shadows 
before  "my"  sight;  and,  with  a  last  feeling  of  terror  and 
a  supreme  effort  to  realise  who  then  was  I  now,  since  I  ivas 
not  that  corpse — a  great  veil  of  darkness  fell  over  me,  like 
a  funeral  pall,  and  every  thought  in  me  was  dead. 


IV 

A  Vision  of  Horror 

How  strange  !  Where  was  I  now  ?     It  was 

evident  to  me  that  I  had  once  more  returned  to  my 
senses.  For  there  I  was,  vividly  realizing  that  I  was 
rapidly  moving  forward,  while  experiencing  a  queer, 
strange  sensation  as  though  I  were  swimming,  without 
impulse  or  effort  on  my  part,  and  in  total  darkness. 
The  idea  that  first  presented  itself  to  me  was  that  of  a 
long  subterranean  passage  of  water,  of  earth,  and  stifling 
air,  though  bodily  I  had  no  perception,  no  sensation,  of 


28  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

the  presence  or  contact  of  any  of  these.  I  tried  to  utter 
a  few  words,  to  repeat  ray  last  sentence,  "  I  desire  but 
one  thing  :  to  learn  the  reason  or  reasons  why  my  sister 
has  so  suddenly  ceased  writing  to  me" — but  the  only 
words  I  heard  out  of  the  twenty-one,  were  the  two,  "  to 
learn"  and  these,  instead  of  their  coming  out  of  my  own 
larynx,  came  back  to  me  in  my  own  voice,  but  entirely 
outside  myself,  near,  but  not  in  me.  In  short,  they  were 
pronounced  by  my  voice,  not  by  my  lips.     .     .     . 

One  more  rapid,  involuntary  motion,  one  more  plunge 
into  the  Cimmerian  darkness  of  a  (to  me)  unknown 
element,  and  I  saw  myself  standing — actually  standing 
— underground,  as  it  seemed.  I  was  compactly  and 
thickly  surrounded  on  all  sides,  above  and  below,  right 
and  left,  with  earth,  and  in  the  mould,  and  yet  it 
weighed  not,  and  seemed  quite  immaterial  and  trans- 
parent to  my  senses.  I  did  not  realize  for  one  second  the 
utter  absurdity,  nay,  impossibility  of  that  seeming  fact ! 
One  second  more,  one  short  instant,  and  I  perceived — 
oh,  inexpressible  horror,  when  I  think  of  it  now ;  for 
then,  although  I  perceived,  realized,  and  recorded  facts 
and  events  far  more  clearly  than  ever  I  had  done  before, 
I  did  not  seem  to  be  touched  in  any  other  way  by  what 
I  saw.  Yes — I  perceived  a  coffin  at  my  feet.  It  was  a 
plain  unpretentious  shell,  made  of  deal,  the  last  couch 
of  the  pauper,  in  which,  notwithstanding  its  closed  lid, 
I  plainly  saw  a  hideous,  grinning  skull,  a  man's  skeleton, 
mutilated  and  broken  in  many  of  its  parts,  as  though  it 
had  been  taken  out  of  some  hidden  chamber  of  the 
defunct  Inquisition,  where  it  had  been  subjected  to 
torture.     "  Who  can  it  be  ?" — I  thought. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  again  proceeding  from  afar 
the  same  voice — my  voice  .  .  .  "the  reason  or  reasons 
why"      ...     it  said  ;  as  though  these  words  were  the 


A   BEWITCHED   LIFE  29 

unbroken  continuation  of  the  same  sentence  of  which  it 
had  just  repeated  the  two  words  "  to  learn."  It  sounded 
near,  and  yet  as  from  some  incalculable  distance ;  giving 
me  then  the  idea  that  the  long  subterranean  journey, 
the  subsequent  mental  reflexions  and  discoveries,  had 
occupied  no  time  ;  had  been  performed  during  the  short, 
almost  instantaneous  interval  between  the  first  and  the 
middle  words  of  the  sentence,  begun,  at  any  rate,  if  not 
actually  pronounced  by  myself  in  my  room  at  Kioto, 
and  which  it  was  now  finishing,  in  interrupted,  broken 
phrases,  like  a  faithful  echo  of  my  own  words  and 
voice.     .     .     . 

Forthwith,  the  hideous,  mangled  remains  began  as- 
suming a  form,  and  to  me,  but  too  familiar  appearance. 
The  broken  parts  joined  together  one  to  the  other,  the 
bones  became  covered  once  more  with  flesh,  and  I  recog- 
nized in  these  disfigured  remains — with  some  surprise, 
but  not  a  trace  of  feeling  at  the  sight — my  sister's  dead 
husband,  my  own  brother-in-law,  whom  I  had  for  her 
sake  loved  so  truly.  "How  was  it,  and  how  did  he  come 
to  die  such  a  terrible  death  ?" — I  asked  myself.  To  put 
oneself  a  query  seemed,  in  the  state  in  which  I  was,  to 
instantly  solve  it.  Hardly  had  I  asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion, when,  as  if  in  a  panorama,  I  saw  the  retrospective 
picture  of  poor  Karl's  death,  in  all  its  horrid  vividness, 
and  with  every  thrilling  detail,  every  one  of  which,  how- 
ever, left  me  then  entirely  and  brutally  indifferent. 
Here  he  is,  the  dear  old  fellow,  full  of  life  and  joy  at 
the  prospect  of  more  lucrative  employment  from  his 
principal,  examining  and  trying  in  a  wood-sawing  fac- 
tory a  monster  steam  engine  just  arrived  from  America. 
He  bends  over,  to  examine  more  closely  an  inner  ar- 
rangement, to  tighten  a  screw.  His  clothes  are  caught 
by  the  teeth  of  the  revolving  wheel  in  full  motion,  and 


30  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

suddenly  he  is  dragged  down,  doubled  up,  and  his  limbs 
half  severed,  torn  off,  before  the  workmen,  unacquainted 
with  the  mechanism  can  stop  it.  He  is  taken  out,  or 
what  remains  of  him,  dead,  mangled,  a  thing  of  horror, 
an  unrecognizable  mass  of  palpitating  flesh  and  blood  ! 
I  follow  the  remains,  wheeled  as  an  unrecognizable  heap 
to  the  hospital,  hear  the  brutally  given  order  that  the 
messengers  of  death  should  stop  on  their  way  at  the 
house  of  the  widow  and  orphans.  I  follow  them,  and 
find  the  unconscious  family  quietly  assembled  together. 
I  see  my  sister,  the  dear  and  beloved,  and  remain  in- 
different at  the  sight,  only  feeling  highly  interested  in 
the  coming  scene.  My  heart,  my  feelings,  even  my  per- 
sonality, seemed  to  have  di§appeare,d^Jo  ha<vetb&an\  left 
behind,  to  belong  to  somebody  else. 

There  "  I  "  stand,  and  witness *her 'unprepared  recep- 
tion of  the  ghastly  news.  I  realize  clearly,  without  one 
moment's  hesitation  or  mistake,  the  effect  of  the  shock 
upon  her,  I  perceive  clearly,  following  and  recording,  to 
the  minutest  detail,  her  sensations  and  the  inner  process' 
that  takes  place  in  her.  I  watch  and  remember,  missing 
not  one  single  point. 

As  the  corpse  is  brought  into  the  house  for  identifica- 
tion I  hear  the  long  agonizing  cry,  my  own  name 
pronounced,  and  the  dull  thud  of  the  living  body 
falling  upon  the  remains  of  the  dead  one.  I  follow  with 
curiosity  the  sudden  thrill  and  the  instantaneous 
perturbation  in  her  brain  that  follow  it,  and  watch  with 
attention  the  worm-like,  precipitate,  and  immensely 
intensified  motion  of  the  tubular  fibers,  the  instantaneous 
change  of  color  in  the  cephalic  extremity  of  the  nervous 
system,  the  fibrous  nervous  matter  passing  from  white  to 
bright  red  and  then  to  a  dark  red,  bluish  hue.  I  notice 
the  sudden  flash  of  a  phosphorous-like,  brilliant  Radiance, 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  3  I 

its  tremor  and  its  sudden  extinction  followed  by  dark- 
ness— complete  darkness  in  the  region  of  memory — as 
the  Radiance,  comparable  in  its  form  only  to  a  human 
shape,  oozes  out  suddenly  from  the  top  of  the  head, 
expands,  loses  its  form  and  scatters.  And  I  say  to 
myself  :  "This  is  insanity  ;  life-long,  incurable  insanity, 
for  the  principle  of  intelligence  is  not  paralyzed  or 
extinguished  temporarily,  but  has  just  deserted  the 
tabernacle  for  ever,  ejected  from  it  by  the  terrible  force 

of  the  sudden  blow The  link  between  the 

animal  and  the  divine  essence  is  broken."  .... 
And  as  the  unfamiliar  term  "divine"  is  mentally  uttered 
my  "  Thought  " — laughs. 

Suddenly  I  hear  again  my  far-off  yet  near  voice  pro- 
nouncing emphatically  and  close  by  me  the  words 
"  why  my  sister  has  so  suddenly  ceased  ivriting." 
And  before  the  two  final  words  "to  me"  have  completed 
the  sentence,  I  see  a  long  series  of  sad  events,  immediately 
following  the  catastrophe. 

I  behold  the  mother,  now  a  helpless,  grovelling  idiot, 
in  the  lunatic  asylum  attached  to  the  city  hospital,  the 
seven  younger  children  admitted  into  a  refuge  for 
paupers.  Finally  I  see  the  two  elder,  a  boy  of  fifteen, 
and  a  girl  a  year  younger,  my  favorites,  both  taken  by 
strangers  into  their  service.  A  captain  of  a  sailing 
vessel  carries  away  my  nephew,  an  old  Jewess  adopts 
the  tender  girl.  I  see  the  events  with  all  their  horrors 
and  thrilling  details,  and  record  each,  to  the  smallest 
detail,  with  the  utmost  coolness. 

For,  mark  well  :  when  I  use  such  expressions  as 
"  horrors,"  etc.,  they  are  to  be  understood  as  an  after- 
thought. During  the  whole  time  of  the  events  described 
I  experienced  no  sensation  of  either  pain  or  pity.  My 
feelings  seemed  to  be  paralyzed  as  well  as  my  external 


3*  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

senses  ;  it  was  only  after  "  coming  back  "  that  I  realized 
my  irretrievable  losses  to  their  full  extent. 

Much  of  that  which  I  had  so  vehemently  denied  in 
those  days,  owing  to  sad  personal  experience  I  have  to 
admit  now.  Had  I  been  told  by  anyone  at  that  time, 
that  man  could  act  and  think  and  feel,  irrespective  of 
his  brain  and  senses  ;  nay,  that  by  some  mysterious,  and 
to  this  day,  for  me,  incomprehensible  power,  he  could  be 
transported  mentally,  thousands  of  miles  away  from  his 
body,  there  to  witness  not  only  present  but  also  past 
events,  and  remember  these  by  storing  them  in  his 
memory — I  would  have  proclaimed  that  man  a  madman. 
Alas,  I  can  do  so  no  longer,  for  I  have  become  myself 
that  "  madman."  Ten,  twenty,  forty,  a  hundred  times 
during  the  course  of  this  wretched  life  of  mine,  have  I 
experienced  and  lived  over  such  moments  of  existence, 
outside  of  my  body.  Accursed  be  that  hour  when  this 
terrible  power  was  first  awakened  in  me !  I  have  not 
even  the  consolation  left  of  attributing  such  glimpses  of 
events  at  a  distance  to  insanity.  Madmen  rave  and  see 
that  which  exists  not  in  the  realm  they  belong  to.  My 
visions  have  proved  invariably  correct.  But  to  my 
narrative  of  woe. 

I  had  hardly  had  time  to  see  my  unfortunate  young 
niece  in  her  new  Israelitish  home,  when  I  felt  a  shock 
of  the  same  nature  as  the  one  that  had  sent  me  "  swim- 
ming" through  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  as  I  had  thought. 
I  opened  my  eyes  in  my  own  room,  and  the  first  thing  I 
fixed  upon  by  accident,  was  the  clock.  The  hands  of  the 
dial  showed  seven  minutes  and  a  half  past  five  !  .  .  .  I 
had  thus  passed  through  these  most  terrible  experiences, 
which  it  takes  me  hours  to  narrate,  in  precisely  half  a 
]/  minute  of  time ! 

But  this,  too,  was  an    after-thought.     For    one    brief 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  33 

instant  I  recollected  nothing  of  what  I  had  seen.  The 
interval  between  the  time  I  had  glanced  at  the  clock 
when  taking  the  mirror  from  the  Yamabooshi's  hand 
and  this  second  glance,  seemed  to  me  merged  in  one.  I 
was  just  opening  my  lips  to  hurry  on  the  Yamabooshi 
with  his  experiment,  when  the  full  remembrance  of  what 
I  had  just  seen  flashed  lightning-like  into  my  brain. 
Uttering  a  cry  of  horror  and  despair,  I  felt  as  though 
the  whole  creation  were  crushing  me  under  its  weight. 
For  one  moment  I  remained  speechless,  the  picture  of 
human  ruin  amid  a  world  of  death  and  desolation.  My 
heart  sank  down  in  anguish  :  my  doom  was  closed  ;  and 
a  hopeless  gloom  seemed  to  settle  over  the  rest  of  my 
life  for  ever. 


Return  of  Doubts 

Then  came  a  reaction  as  sudden  as  my  grief  itself.  A 
doubt  arose  in  my  mind,  which  forthwith  grew  into  a 
fierce  desire  of  denying  the  truth  of  what  I  had  seen.  A 
stubborn  resolution  of  treating  the  whole  thing  as  an 
empty,  meaningless  dream,  the  effect  of  my  overstrained 
mind,  took  possession  of  me.  Yes;  it  was  but  a  lying 
vision,  an  idiotic  cheating  of  my  own  senses,  suggesting 
pictures  of  death  and  misery  which  had  been  evoked  by 
weeks  of  incertitude  and  mental  depression. 

"How  could  I  see  all  that  I  have  seen  in  less  than  half 
a  minute?" — I  exclaimed.  "  The  theory  of  dreams,  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  material  changes  on  which  our 
ideas  in  vision  depend,  are  excited  in  the  hemispherical 


34  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

ganglia,  is  sufficient  to  account  for  the  long  series  of 
events  I  have  seemed  to  experience.  In  dream  alone 
can  the  relations  of  space  and  time  be  so  completely 
annihilated.  The  Yamabooshi  is  for  nothing  in  this 
disagreeable  nightmare.  He  is  only  reaping  that  which 
has  been  sown  by  myself,  and,  by  using  some  infernal 
drug,  of  which  his  tribe  have  the  secret,  he  has  con- 
trived to  make  me  lose  consciousness  for  a  few  seconds 
and  see  that  vision — as  lying  as  it  is  horrid.  Avaunt  all 
such  thoughts,  I  believe  them  not.  In  a  few  days  there 
will  be  a  steamer  sailing  for  Europe.  .  .  I  shall  leave 
to-morrow  ! " 

This  disjointed  monologue  was  pronounced  by  me 
aloud,  regardless  of  the  presence  of  my  respected  friend 
the  Bonze,  Tamoora,  and  the  Yamabooshi.  The  latter 
was  standing  before  me  in  the  same  position  as  when  he 
placed  the  mirror  in  my  hands,  and  kept  looking  at  me 
calmly,  I  should  perhaps  say  looking  through  me,  and  in 
dignified  silence.  The  Bonze,  whose  kind  countenance 
was  beaming  with  sympathy,  approached  me  as  he  would 
a  sick  child,  and  gently  laying  his  hand  on  mine,  and 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  said  :  "  Friend,  you  must  not 
leave  this  city  before  you  have  been  completely  purified 
of  your  contact  with  the  lower  Daij-Dzins  (spirits),  who 
had  to  be  used  to  guide  your  inexperienced  soul  to  the 
places  it  craved  to  see.  The  entrance  to  your  Inner 
Self  must  be  closed  against  their  dangerous  intrusion. 
Lose  no  time,  therefore,  my  son,  and  allow  the  holy 
Master  yonder,  to  purify  you  at  once." 

But  nothing  can  be  m'ore  deaf  than  anger  once  aroused. 
"  The  sap  of  reason  "  could  no  longer  "quench  the  fire 
of  passion,"  and  at  that  moment  I  was  not  fit  to  listen  to 
his  friendly  voice.  His  is  a  face  I  can  never  recall  to 
my  memory  without  genuine  feeling ;  his,  a  name  I  will 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  3  5 

ever  pronounce  with  a  sigh  of  emotion  ;  but  at  that 
ever  memorable  hour  when  my  passions  were  inflamed 
to  white  heat,  I  felt  almost  a  hatred  for  the  kind,  good 
old  man,  I  could  not  forgive  him  his  interference  in  the 
present  event.  Hence,  for  all  answer,  therefore,  he 
received  from  me  a  stern  rebuke,  a  violent  protest  on  my 
part  against  the  idea  that  I  could  ever  regard  the  vision 
I  had  had,  in  any  other  light  save  that  of  an  empty 
dream,  and  his  Yamabooshi  as  anything  better  than  an 
impostor.  "  I  will  leave  to-morrow,  had  I  to  forfeit  my 
whole  fortune  as  a  penalty" — I  exclaimed,  pale  with  rage 
and  despair. 

"  You  will  repent  it  the  whole  of  your  life,  if  you  do  so 
before  the  holy  man  has  shut  every  entrance  in  you 
against  intruders  ever  on  the  watch  and  ready  to  enter 
the  open  door,"  was  the  answer.  "  The  Daij-Dzins  will 
have  the  best  of  you." 

I  interrupted  him  with  a  brutal  laugh,  and  a  still  more 
brutally  phrased  inquiry  about  the  fees  I  was  expected 
to  give  the  Yamabooshi,  for  his  experiment  with  me. 

"  He  needs  no  reward,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  order  he 
belongs  to  is  the  richest  in  the  world,  since  its  adherents 
need  nothing,  for  they  are  above  all  terrestrial  and  venal 
desires.  Insult  him  not,  the  good  man  who  came  to  help 
you  out  of  pure  sympathy  for  your  suffering,  and  to 
relieve  you  of  mental  agony." 

But  I  would  listen  to  no  words  of  reason  and  wisdom. 
The  spirit  of  rebellion  and  pride  had  taken  possession  of 
me,  and  made  me  disregard  every  feeling  of  personal 
friendship,  or  even  of  simple  propriety.  Luckily  for  me, 
on  turning  round  to  order  the  mendicant  monk  out  of  my 
presence,  I  found  he  had  gone. 

I  had  not  seen  him  move,  and  attributed  his  stealthy 


36  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

departure  to  fear  at  having  been  detected  and  under- 
stood. 

Fool!  blind,  conceited  idiot  that  I  was!  Why  did  I 
fail  to  recognize  the  Yamabooshi's  power,  and  that  the 
peace  of  my  whole  life  was  departing  with  him,  from 
that  moment  for  ever?  But  I  did  so  fail.  Even  the  fell 
demon  of  my  long  fears — uncertainty — was  now  entirely 
overpowered  by  that  fiend  scepticism — the  silliest  of  all. 
A  dull,  morbid  unbelief,  a  stubborn  denial  of  the  evidence 
of  my  own  senses,  and  a  determined  will  to  regard  the 
whole  vision  as  a  fancy  of  my  overwrought  mind,  had 
taken  firm  hold  of  me. 

"  My  mind,"  I  argued,  "  what  is  it  ?  Shall  I  believe 
with  the  superstitious  and  the  weak  that  this  production 
of  phosphorus  and  gray  matter  is  indeed  the  superior 
part  of  me;  that  it  can  act  and  see  independently  of  my 
physical  senses  ?  Never  !  As  well  believe  in  the  plane- 
tary '  intelligences '  of  the  astrologer,  as  in  the  '  Daij- 
Dzins  '  of  my  credulous  though  well-meaning  friend,  the 
priest.  As  well  confess  one's  belief  in  Jupiter  and  Sol, 
Saturn  and  Mercury,  and  that  these  worthies  guide  their 
spheres  and  concern  themselves  with  mortals,  as  to  give 
one  serious  thought  to  the  airy  nonentities  supposed  to 
have  guided  my  'soul'  in  its  unpleasant  dream!  I  loathe 
and  laugh  at  the  absurd  idea.  I  regard  it  as  a  personal 
insult  to  the  intellect  and  rational  reasoning  powers  of 
a  man,  to  speak  of  invisible  creatures,  '  subjective  intelli- 
gences,' and  all  that  kind  of  insane  superstition."  In 
short,  I  begged  my  friend  the  Bonze  to  spare  me  his 
protests,  and  thus  the  unpleasantness  of  breaking  with 
him  for  ever. 

Thus  I  raved  and  argued  before  the  venerable  Japanese 
gentleman,  doing  all  in  my  power  to  leave  on  his  mind 
the  indelible  conviction    of   my    having  gone  suddenly 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  37 

mad.  But  his  admirable  forbearance  proved  more  than 
equal  to  my  idiotic  passion  ;  and  he  implored  me  once 
more,  for  the  sake  of  my  whole  future,  to  submit  to 
certain  "  necessary  purificatory  rites." 

"Never!  Far  rather  dwell  in  air,  rarefied  to  nothing 
by  the  air-pump  of  wholesome  unbelief,  than  in  the  dim 
fog  of  silly  superstition,"  I  argued,  paraphrazing  Richter's 
remark.  "  I  will  not  believe,"  I  repeated;  "but  as  I  can 
no  longer  bear  such  uncertainty  about  my  sister  and  her 
family,  I  will  return  by  the  first  steamer  to  Europe." 

This  final  determination  upset  my  old  acquaintance 
altogether.  His  earnest  prayer  not  to  depart  before  I 
had  seen  the  Yamabooshi  once  more,  received  no  atten- 
tion from  me. 

"Friend  of  a  foreign  land!" — he  cried,  "  I  pray  that 
you  may  not  repent  of  your  unbelief  and  rashness.  May 
the  'Holy  One'  (Kwan-On,  the  Goddess  of  Mercy)  pro- 
tect you  from  the  Dzins!  For,  since  you  refuse  to 
submit  to  the  process  of  purification  at  the  hands  of  the 
holy  Yamabooshi,  he  is  powerless  to  defend  you  from  the 
evil  influences  evoked  by  your  unbelief  and  defiance  of 
truth.  But  let  me,  at  this  parting  hour,  I  beseech  you, 
let  me,  an  older  man  who  wishes  you  well,  warn 
you  once  more  and  persuade  you  of  things  you  are  still 
ignorant  of.     May  I  speak?" 

"  Go  on  and  have  your  say,"  was  the  ungracious  assent. 
"  But  let  me  warn  you,  in  my  turn,  that  nothing  you  can 
say  can  make  of  me  a  believer  in  your  disgraceful  super- 
stitions." This  was  added  with  a  cruel  feeling  of  pleasure 
in  bestowing  one  more  needless  insult. 

But  the  excellent  man  disregarded  this  new  sneer  as 
he  had  all  others.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  solemn 
earnestness  of  his  parting  words,  the  pitying,  remorseful 
look  on  his  face  when  he  found  that  it  was,  indeed,  all  to 


38  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

no  purpose,  that  by  his  kindly  meant  interference  he  had 
only  led  me  to  my  destruction. 

"  Lend  me  your  ear,  good  sir,  for  the  last  time,"  he 
began,  "  learn  that  unless  the  holy  and  venerable  man, 
who,  to  relieve  your  distress,  opened  your  '  soul  vision,' 
is  permitted  to  complete  his  work,  your  future  life  will, 
indeed,  be  little  worth  living.  He  has  to  safeguard  you 
against  involuntary  repetitions  of  visions  of  the  same 
character.  Unless  you  consent  to  it  of  your  own  free 
will,  however,  you  will  have  to  be  left  in  the  power  of 
Forces  which  will  harass  and  persecute  you  to  the  verge 
of  insanity.  Know  that  the  development  of  '  Long 
Vision '  (clairvoyance) — which  is  accomplished  at  will 
only  by  those  for  whom  the  Mother  of  Mercy,  the  great 
Kwan-On,  has  no  secrets — must,  in  the  case  of  the 
beginner,  be  pursued  with  help  of  the  air  Dzins 
(elemental  spirits)  whose  nature  is  soulless,  and  hence 
wicked.  Know  also  that,  while  the  Arihat, '  the  destroyer 
of  the  enemy,'  who  has  subjected  and  made  of  these 
creatures  his  servants,  has  nothing  to  fear ;  he  who  has 
no  power  over  them  becomes  their  slave.  Nay,  laugh  not 
in  your  great  pride  and  ignorance,  but  listen  further. 
During  the  time  of  the  vision  and  while  the  inner 
perceptions  are  directed  towards  the  events  they  seek,  the 
Daij-Dzin  has  the  seer — when,  like  yourself,  he  is  an 
inexperienced  tyro — entirely  in  its  power  ;  and  for  the 
time  being  that  seer  is  no  longer  himself.  He  partakes  of 
the  nature  of  his  'guide.'  The  Daij-Dzin,  which  directs 
his  inner  sight,  keeps  his  soul  in  durance  vile,  making  of 
him,  while  the  state  lasts,  a  creature  like  itself.  Bereft 
of  his  divine  light,  man  is  but  a  soulless  being  ;  hence 
during  the  time  of  such  connection,  he  will  feel  no  human 
emotions,  neither  pity  nor  fear,  love  nor  mere}'." 

"  Hold  !"    I    involuntarily    exclaimed,    as    the   words 


A    BEWITCHED   LIFE  39 

vividly  brought  back  to  my  recollection  the  indifference 
with  which  I  had  witnessed  my  sister's  despair  and 
sudden  loss  of  reason  in  my  "  hallucination."  "  Hold  I 
.  .  .  But  no ;  it  is  still  worse  madness  in  me  to  heed 
or  find  any  sense  in  your  ridiculous  tale  !  But  if  you 
knew  it  to  be  so  dangerous  why  have  advised  the 
experiment  at  all  ?" — I  added  mockingly. 

"  It  had  to  last  but  a  few  seconds,  and  no  evil  could 
have  resulted  from  it,  had  you  kept  your  promise  to 
submit  to  purification,"  was  the  sad  and  humble  reply. 
"I  wished  you  well,  my  friend,  and  my  heart  was  nigh 
breaking  to  see  you  suffering  day  by  day.  The  experi- 
ment is  harmless  when  directed  by  one  who  knows,  and 
becomes  dangerous  only  when  the  final  precaution  is 
neglected.  It  is  the  'Master  of  Visions,'  he  who  has 
opened  an  entrance  into  your  soul,  who  has  to  close  it  by 
using  the  Seal  of  Purification  against  any  further  and 
deliberate  ingress  of     .     .     ." 

"  The  'Master  of  Visions,'  forsooth  !"  I  cried,  brutally 
interrupting  him,  "say  rather  the  Master  of  Imposture!" 

The  look  of  sorrow  on  his  kind  old  face  was  so  intense 
and  painful  to  behold  that  I  perceived  I  had  gone  too 
far  ;  but  it  was  too  late. 

"  Farewell,  then!"  said  the  old  bonze, rising;  and  after 
performing  the  usual  ceremonials  of  politeness,  Tamoora 
left  the  house  in  dignified  silence. 


VI 

I  Depart — But  Not  Alone 

Several  days  later  I  sailed,  but  during  my  stay  I  saw 
my  venerable  friend  the  Bonze,  no  more.  Evidently  on 
that  last,  and  to  me  for  ever  memorable  evening,  he  had 


4°  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

been  seriously  offended  with  my  more  than  irreverent, 
my  downright  insulting  remark  about  one  whom  he  so 
justly  respected.  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  but  the  wheel  of 
passion  and  pride  was  too  incessantly  at  work  to  permit 
me  to  feel  a  single  moment  of  remorse.  What  was  it 
that  made  me  so  relish  the  pleasure  of  wrath,  that  when, 
for  one  instant,  I  happened  to  lose  sight  of  my  supposed 
grievance  toward  the  Yamabooshi,  I  forthwith  lashed 
myself  back  into  a  kind  of  artificial  fury  against  him. 
He  had  only  accomplished  what  he  had  been  expected 
to  do,  and  what  he  had  tacitly  promised  ;  not  only  so, 
but  it  was  I  myself  who  had  deprived  him  of  the  possi- 
bility of  doing  more,  even  for  my  own  protection,  if  I 
might  believe  the  Bonze — a  man  whom  I  knew  to  be 
thoroughly  honorable  and  reliable.  Was  it  regret  at 
having  been  forced  by  my  pride  to  refuse  the  proffered 
precaution,  or  was  it  the  fear  of  remorse  that  made  me 
rake  together,  in  my  heart,  during  those  evil  hours,  the 
smallest  details  of  the  supposed  insult  to  that  same 
suicidal  pride  ?  Remorse,  as  an  old  poet  has  aptly 
remarked,  "is  like  the  heart  in  which  it  grows  :     .     .     . 

if  proud  and  gloomy, 

It  is  a  poison-tree,  that  pierced  to  the  utmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  blood." 

Perchance,  it  was  the  indefinite  fear  of  something  of 
that  sort  which  caused  me  to  remain  so  obdurate,  and 
led  me  to  excuse,  under  the  plea  of  terrible  provocation, 
even  the  unprovoked  insults  that  I  had  heaped  upon  the 
head  of  my  kind  and  all-forgiving  friend,  the  priest. 
However,  it  was  now  too  late  in  the  day  to  recall  the 
words  of  offence  I  had  uttered ;  and  all  I  could  do  was 
to  promise  myself  the  satisfaction  of  writing  him  a 
friendly  letter,  as  soon  as  I  reached  home.  Fool,  blind 
fool,  elated   with   insolent  self-conceit,  that  I  was !     So 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  4 1 

sure  did  I  feel,  that  my  vision  was  due  merely  to  some 
trick  of  the  Yamabooshi,  that  I  actually  gloated  over  my 
coming  triumph  in  writing  to  the  Bonze  that  I  had  been 
right  in  answering  his  sad  words  of  parting  with  an 
incredulous  smile,  as  my  sister  and  family  were  all  in 
good  health — happy  ! 

I  had  not  been  at  sea  for  a  week,  before  I  had  cause  to 
remember  his  words  of  warning  ! 

From  the  day  of  my  experience  with  the  magic  mirror, 
I  perceived  a  great  change  in  my  whole  state,  and  I 
attributed  it,  at  first,  to  the  mental  depression  I  had 
struggled  against  for  so  many  months.  During  the  dav 
I  very  often  found  myself  absent  from  the  surrounding 
scenes,  losing  sight  for  several  minutes  of  things  and 
persons.  My  nights  were  disturbed,  my  dreams  oppres- 
sive, and  at  times  horrible.  Good  sailor  I  certainly  was; 
and  besides,  the  weather  was  unusually  fine,  the  ocean 
as  smooth  as  a  pond.  Notwithstanding  this,  I  often  felt 
a  strange  giddiness,  and  the  familiar  faces  of  my  fellow- 
passengers  assumed  at  such  times  the  most  grotesque 
appearances.  Thus,  a  young  German  I  used  to  know 
well  was  once  suddenly  transformed  before  my  eyes  into 
his  old  father,  whom  we  had  laid  in  the  little  burial 
place  of  the  European  colony  some  three  years  before. 
We  were  talking  on  deck  of  the  defunct  and  of  a  certain 
business  arrangement  of  his,  when  Max  Grunner's  head 
appeared  to  me  as  though  it  were  covered  with  a  strange 
film.  A  thick  greyish  mist  surrounded  him,  and  gradu- 
ally condensing  around  and  upon  his  healthy  counten- 
ance, settled  suddenly  into  the  grim  old  head  I  had 
myself  seen  covered  with  six  feet  of  soil.  On  another 
occasion,  as  the  captain  was  talking  of  a  Malay  thief 
whom  he  had  helped  to  secure  and  lodge  in  jail,  I  saw 
near  him  the  yellow,  villainous  face  of  a  man  answering 


42  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

to  his  description.  I  kept  silence  about  such  hallucina- 
tions ;  but  as  they  became  more  and  more  frequent,  I 
felt  very  much  disturbed,  though  still  attributing  them  to 
natural  causes,  such  as  I  had  read  about  in  medical  books. 

One  night  I  was  abruptly  wakened  by  a  long  and 
loud  cry  of  distress.  It  was  a  woman's  voice,  plaintive 
like  that  of  a  child,  full  of  terror  and  of  helpless  despair. 
I  awoke  with  a  start  to  find  myself  on  land,  in  a  strange 
room.  A  young  girl,  almost  a  child,  was  desperately 
struggling  against  a  powerful  middle-aged  man,  who 
had  surprised  her  in  her  own  room,  and  during  her  sleep. 
Behind  the  closed  and  locked  door,  I  saw  listening  an 
old  woman,  whose  face,  notwithstanding  the  fiendish 
expression  upon  it,  seemed  familiar  to  me,  and  I  imme- 
diately recognized  it :  it  was  the  face  of  the  Jewess  who 
had  adopted  my  niece  in  the  dream  I  had  at  Kioto.  She 
had  received  gold  to  pay  for  her  share  in  the  foul  crime, 
and  was  now  keeping  her  part  of  the  covenant. 
But  who  was  the  victim  ?  0  horror  unutterable !  Un- 
speakable horror !  When  I  realized  the  situation  after 
coming  back  to  my  normal  state,  I  found  it  was  my  own 
child-niece. 

But,  as  in  my  first  vision,  I  felt  in  me  nothing  of  the 
nature  of  that  despair  born  of  affection  that  fills  one's 
heart,  at  the  sight  of  a  wrong  done  to,  or  a  misfortune 
befalling,  those  one  loves;  nothing  but  a  manly  indigna- 
tion in  the  presence  of  suffering  inflicted  upon  the  weak 
and  the  helpless.  I  rushed,  of  course,  to  her  rescue,  and 
seized  the  wanton,  brutal  beast  by  the  neck.  I  fastened 
upon  him  with  powerful  grasp,  but,  the  man  heeded  it 
not,  he  seemed  not  even  to  feel  my  hand.  The  coward, 
seeing  himself  resisted  by  the  girl,  lifted  his  powerful 
arm,  and  the  thick  fist,  coming  down  like  a  heavy 
hammer  upon  the  sunny  locks,  felled  the  child  to  the 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  43 

ground.  It  was  with  a  loud  cry  of  the  indignation  of  a 
stranger,  not  with  that  of  a  tigress  defending  her  cub, 
that  I  sprang  upon  the  lewd  beast  and  sought  to  throttle 
him.  I  then  remarked,  for  the  first  time,  that,  a  shadow 
myself,  I  was  grasping  but  another  shadow  ! 

My  loud  shrieks  and  imprecations  had  awakened  the 
whole  steamer.  They  were  attributed  to  a  nightmare. 
I  did  not  seek  to  take  anyone  into  hay  confidence ;  but, 
from  that  day  forward,  my  life  became  a  long  series  of 
mental  tortures,  I  could  hardly  shut  my  eyes  without 
becoming  witness  of  some  horrible  deed,  some  scene  of 
misery,  death  or  crime,  whether  past,  present  or  even 
future — as  I  ascertained  later  on.  It  was  as  though 
some  mocking  fiend  had  taken  upon  himself  the  task  of 
making  me  go  through  the  vision  of  everything  that  was 
bestial,  malignant  and  hopeless,  in  this  world  of  misery. 
No  radiant  vision  of  beauty  or  virtue  ever  lit  with  the 
faintest  ray  these  pictures  of  awe  and  wretchedness  that 
I  seemed  doomed  to  witness.  Scenes  of  wickedness,  of 
murder,  of  treachery  and  of  lust  fell  dismally  upon  my 
sight,  and  I  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  vilest 
results  of  man's  passions,  the  most  terrible  outcome  of 
his  material  earthly  cravings. 

Had  the  Bonze  foreseen,  indeed,  the  dreary  results, 
when  he  spoke  of  Daij-Dzins  to  whom  I  left  "  an  ingress" 
"a  door  open  "  in  me  ?  Nonsense  !  There  must  be  some 
physiological,  abnormal  change  in  me.  Once  at  Nurem- 
berg, when  I  have  ascertained  how  false  was  the 
direction  taken  by  my  fears — I  dared  not  hope  for  no 
misfortune  at  all — these  meaningless  visions  will  dis- 
appear as  they  came.  The  very  fact  that  my  fancy 
follows  but  one  direction,  that  of  pictures  of  misery,  of 
human  passions  in  their  worst,  material  shape,  is  a  proof 
to  me,  of  their  unreality. 


44  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

"  If,  as  you  say,  man  consists  of  one  substance,  matter, 
the  object  of  the  physical  senses  ;  and  if  perception  with 
its  modes  is  only  the  result  of  the  organization  of  the 
brain,  then  should  we  be  naturally  attracted  but  to  the 
material,  the  earthly"  ....  I  thought  I  heard  the 
familiar  voice  of  the  Bonze  interrupting  my  reflections, 
and  repeating  an  often  used  argument  of  his  in  his 
discussions  with  me. 

"  There  are  two  planes  of  visions  before  men,"  I  again 
heard  him  say,  "  the  plane  of  undying  love  and  spiritual 
aspirations,  the  efflux  from  the  eternal  light ;  and  the 
plane  of  restless,  ever  changing  matter,  the  light  in 
which  the  misguided  Daij-Dzins  bathe." 


VII 

Eternity  in  a  Short  Dream 

In  those  days  I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to  realize, 
even  for  a  moment,  the  absurdity  of  a  belief  in  any  kind 
of  spirits,  whether  good  or  bad.  I  now  understood,  if 
I  did  not  believe,  what  was  meant  by  the  term,  though  I 
still  persisted  in  hoping  that  it  would  finally  prove  some 
physical  derangement  or  nervous  hallucination.  To 
fortify  my  unbelief  the  more,  I  tried  to  bring  back  to  my 
memory  all  the  arguments  used  against  a  faith  in  such 
superstitions,  that  I  had  ever  read  or  heard.  I  recalled 
the  biting  sarcasms  of  Voltaire,  the  calm  reasoning  of 
Hume,  and  I  repeated  to  myself  ad  nauseam  the  words 
of  Rousseau,  who  said  that  superstition,  "the  disturber  of 
Society,"  could  never  be  too  strongly  attacked.     "  Why 


A     BEWITCHED    LIFE  45 

should  the  sight,  the  phantasmagoria,  rather" — I  argued 
— "of  that  which  we  know  in  a  waking  sense  to  be  false, 
come  to  affect  us  at  all?"     Why  should — 

Names,  whose  sense  we  see  not 
Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not? 

One  day  the  old  captain  was  narrating  to  us  the  various 
superstitions  to  which  sailors  were  addicted  ;  a  pompous 
English  missionary  remarked  that  Fielding  had  declared 
long  ago  that  "superstition  renders  a  man  a  fool," — after 
which  he  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  abruptly  stopped. 
I  had  not  taken  any  part  in  the  general  conversation  ; 
but  no  sooner  had  the  reverend  speaker  relieved  himself 
of  the  quotation,  than  I  saw  in  that  halo  of  vibrating 
light,  which  I  now  noticed  almost  constantly  over  every 
human  head  on  the  steamer,  the  words  of  Fielding's  next 
proposition — "and  scepticism  makes  him  mad" 

I  had  heard  and  read  of  the  claims  of  those  who  pre- 
tend to  seership,  that  they  often  see  the  thoughts  of 
people  traced  in  the  aura  of  those  present.  Whatever 
"  aura  "  may  mean  with  others,  I  had  now  a  personal  ex- 
perience of  the  truth  of  the  claim,  and  felt  sufficiently 
disgusted  with  the  discovery!  I — a  clairvoyant!  a  new 
horror  added  to  my  life,  an  absurd  and  ridiculous  gift 
developed,  which  I  shall  have  to  conceal  from  all,  feeling 
ashamed  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  case  of  leprosy.  At  this 
moment  my  hatred  to  the  Yamabooshi,  and  even  to  my 
venerable  old  friend,  the  Bonze,  knew  no  bounds.  The 
former  had  evidently  by  his  manipulations  over  me  while 
I  was  lying  unconscious,  touched  some  unknown  physio- 
logical spring  in  my  brain,  and  by  loosing  it  had  called 
forth  a  faculty  generally  hidden  in  the  human  constitu- 
tion ;  and  it  was  the  Japanese  priest  who  had  introduced 
the  wretch  into  my  house  ! 

But  my  anger  and  my  curses  were  alike  useless,  and 


46  NIGHTMA11E   TALES 

could  be  of  no  avail.  Moreover,  we  were  already  in 
European  waters,  and  in  a  few  more  days  we  should  be 
at  Hamburg.  Then  would  my  doubts  and  fears  be  set 
at  rest,  and  I  should  find,  to  my  intense  relief,  that 
although  clairvoyance,  as  regards  the  reading  of  human 
thoughts  on  the  spot,  may  have  some  truth  in  it,  the 
discernment  of  such  events  at  a  distance,  as  I  had 
dreamed  of,  was  an  impossibility  for  human  faculties. 
Notwithstanding  all  my  reasoning,  however,  my  heart 
was  sick  with  fear,  and  full  of  the  blackest  presenti- 
ments ;  I  felt  that  my  doom  was  closing.  I  suffered 
terribly,  my  nervous  and  mental  prostration  becoming 
intensified  day  by  day. 

The  night  before  we  entered  port  I  had  a  dream. 

I  fancied  I  was  dead.  My  body  lay  cold  and  stiff  in 
its  last  sleep,  whilst  its  dying  consciousness,  which  still 
regarded  itself  as  "  I,"  realizing  the  event,  was  preparing 
to  meet  in  a  few  seconds  its  own  extinction.  It  had  been 
always  my  belief  that  as  the  brain  preserved  heat  longer 
than  any  of  the  other  organs,  and  was  the  last  to  cease  its 
activity,  the  thought  in  it  survived  bodily  death  by  several 
minutes.  Therefore,  I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  to 
find  in  my  dream  that  while  the  frame  had  already  crossed 
that  awful  gulf  "no  mortal  e'er  repassed,"  its  conscious- 
ness was  still  in  the  gray  twilight,  the  first  shadows  of 
the  great  Mystery.  Thus  my  Thought  wrapped,  as  I 
believed,  in  the  remnants,  of  its  now  fast  retiring  vitality, 
was  watching  with  intense  and  eager  curiosity  the  ap- 
proaches of  its  own  dissolution,  i.e.,  of  its  annihilation. 
"  I "  was  hastening  to  record  my  last  impressions,  lest 
the  dark  mantle  of  eternal  oblivion  should  envelope  me, 
before  I  had  time  to  feel  and  enjoy,  the  great,  the  supreme 
triumph  of  learning  that  my  life-long  convictions  were 
true,  that  death  is  a  complete  and  absolute  cessation  of 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  47 

conscious  being.  Everything  around  me  was  getting 
darker  with  every  moment.  Huge  gray  shadows  were 
moving  before  my  vision,  slowly  at  first,  then  with  ac- 
celerated motion,  until  they  commenced  whirling  around 
with  an  almost  vertiginous  rapidity.  Then,  as  though 
that  motion  had  taken  place  only  for  purposes  of  brew- 
ing darkness,  the  object  once  reached,  it  slackened  its 
speed,  and  as  the  darkness  became  gradually  transformed 
into  intense  blackness,  it  ceased  altogether.  There  was 
nothing  now  within  my  immediate  perceptions,  but  that 
fathomless  black  Space,  as  dark  as  pitch:  to  me  it  ap- 
peared as  limitless  and  as  silent  as  the  shoreless  Ocean 
of  Eternity  upon  which  Time,  the  progeny  of  man's 
brain,  is  for  ever  gliding,  but  which  it  can  never  cross. 

Dream  is  defined  by  Cato  as  "  but  the  image  of  our 
hopes  and  fears."  Having  never  feared  death  when 
awake,  I  felt,  in  this  dream  of  mifie,  calm  and  serene  at 
the  idea  of  my  speedy  end.  In  truth,  I  felt  rather  re- 
lieved at  the  thought — probably  owing  to  my  recent 
mental  suffering — that  the  end  of  all,  of  doubt,  of  fear 
for  those  I  loved,  of  suffering,  and  of  every  anxiety,  was 
close  at  hand.  The  constant  anguish  that  had  been 
gnawing  ceaselessly  at  my  heavy,  aching  heart  for  many 
a  long  and  weary  month,  had  now  become  unbearable  ; 
and  if  as  Seneca  thinks,  death  is  but  "the  ceasing  to  be 
what  we  were  before,"  it  was  better  that  I  should  die. 
The  body  is  dead  ;  "  I,"  its  consciousness — that  which  is 
all  that  remains  of  me  now,  for  a  few  moments  longer — 
am  preparing  to  follow.  Mental  perceptions  will  get 
weaker,  more  dim  and  hazy  with  every  second  of  time, 
until  the  longed  for  oblivion  envelopes  me  completely 
in  its  cold  shroud.  Sweet  is  the  magic  hand  of  Death, 
the  great  World-Comforter ;  profound  and  dreamless  is 
sleep  in  its  unyielding  arms.     Yea,  verily,  it  is  a  welcome 


4«  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

guest.  ...  A  calm  and  peaceful  haven  amidst  the 
roaring  billows  of  the  Ocean  of  life,  whose  breakers  lash 
in  vain  the  rock-bound  shores  of  Death.  Happy  the 
lonely  bark  that  drifts  into  the  still  waters  of  its  black 
gulf,  after  having  been  so  long,  so  cruelly  tossed  about 
by  the  angry  waves  of  sentient  life.  Moored  in  it  for 
evermore,  needing  no  longer  either  sail  or  rudder,  my 
bark  will  now  find  rest.  Welcome  then,  O  Death,  at  this 
tempting  price  ;  and  fare  thee  wrell,  poor  body,  which, 
having  neither  sought  it  nor  derived  pleasure  from  it,  I 
now  readily  give  up !     .     .     .     . 

While  uttering  this  death-chant  to  the  prostrate  form 
before  me,  I  bent  over,  and  examined  it  with  curiosity. 
I  felt  the  surrounding  darkness  oppressing  me,  weighing 
on  me  almost  tangibly,  and  I  fancied  I  found  in  it  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Liberator  I  was  welcoming.  And  yet  .  .  . 
how  very  strange!  If  real,  final  Death  takes  place  in 
our  consciousness;  if  after  the  bodily  death,  "I"  and  my 
conscious  perceptions  are  one — how  is  it  that  these 
perceptions  do  not  become  weaker,  why  does  my  brain- 
action  seem  as  vigorous  as  ever  now  .  .  .  that  I  am 
de  facto  dead  ?  .  .  .  .  Nor  does  the  usual  feeling  of 
anxiety,  the  "heavy  heart"  so-called,  decrease  in  inten- 
sity ;  nay,  it  even  seems  to  become  worse  .  .  .  un- 
speakably so !  .  .  How  long  it  takes  for  full  oblivion 
to  arrive!  .  .  .  Ah,  here's  my  body  again!  .  .  . 
Vanished  out  of  sight  for  a  second  or  two,  it  reappears 
before  me  once  more.  .  .  .  How  white  and  ghastly  it 
looks!  Yet  ...  its  brain  cannot  be  quite  dead,  since 
"  I,"  its  consciousness,  am  still  acting,  since  we  two  fancy 
that  we  still  are,  that  we  live  and  think,  disconnected 
from  our  creator  and  its  ideating  cell. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  see  how  much  longer 
the  progress  of  dissolution  was  likely  to  last,  before  it 


A    HKW  ITCIIK!)    LIKK  49 

placed  its  last  seal  on  the  brain  and  rendered  it  inactive. 
I  examined  my  brain  in  its  cranial  cavity,  through  the 
(to  me)  entirely  transparent  walls  and  roof  of  the  skull, 
and  even  touched  the  brain-matter.  .  .  .  How,  or  with 
whose  hands,  I  am  now  unable  to  say;  but  the  impression 
of  the  slimy,  intensely  cold  matter  produced  a  very 
strong  impression  on  me,  in  that  dream.  To  my  great 
dismay,  I  found  that  the  blood  having  entirely  congealed 
and  the  brain-tissues  having  themselves  undergone  a 
change  that  would  no  longer  permit  any  molecular 
action,  it  became  impossible  for  me  to  account  for  the 
phenomena  now  taking  place  with  myself.  Here  was  I, 
— or  my  consciousness,  which  is  all  one — standing  ap- 
parently entirely  disconnected  from  my  brain  which 
could  no  longer  function.  .  .  .  But  I  had  no  time 
left  for  reflection.  A  new  and  most  extraordinary 
change  in  my  perceptions  had  taken  place  and  now 
engrossed  my  whole  attention.  .  .  .  What  does  this 
signify?     .     .     . 

The  same  darkness  was  around  me  as  before,  a  black, 
impenetrable  space,  extending  in  every  direction.  Only 
now,  right  before  me,  in  whatever  direction  I  was  look- 
ing, moving  with  me  which  way  soever  I  moved,  there 
was  a  gigantic  round  clock;  a  disk,  whose  large  white 
face  shone  ominously  on  the  ebony-black  background. 
As  I  looked  at  its  huge  dial,  and  at  the  pendulum  mov- 
ing to  and  fro  regularly  and  slowly  in  Space,  as  if  its 
swinging  meant  to  divide  eternity,  I  saw  its  needles 
pointing  to  seven  minutes  past  five.  "The  hour  at  which 
my  torture  had  commenced  at  Kioto!"  I  had  barely 
found  time  to  think  of  the  coincidence,  when,  to  my 
unutterable  horror,  I  felt  myself  going  through  the 
same,  the  identical,  process  that  I  had  been  made  to 
experience  on  that  memorable  and  fatal  day.     I  swam 


5°  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

underground,  dashing  swiftly  through  the  earth;  I  found 
myself  once  more  in  the  pauper's  grave  and  recognized 
my  brother-in-law  in  the  mangled  remains  ;  I  witnessed 
his  terrible  death;  entered  my  sister's  house;  followed 
her  agony,  and  saw  her  go  mad.  I  went  over  the  same 
scenes  without  missing  a  single  detail  of  them.  But, 
alas!  I  was  no  longer  iron-bound  in  the  calm  indiffer- 
ence that  had  then  been  mine,  and  which  in  that  first 
vision  had  left  me  as  unfeeling  to  my  great  misfortune 
as  if  I  had  been  a  heartless  thing  of  rock.  My  mental 
tortures  were  now  becoming  beyond  description  and 
well-nigh  unbearable.  Even  the  settled  despair,  the 
never  ceasing  anxiety  I  was  constantly  experiencing 
when  awake,  had  become  now,  in  my  dream  and  in 
the  face  of  this  repetition  of  visions  and  events,  as  an 
hour  of  darkened  sunlight  compared  to  a  deadly  cyclone. 
Oh !  how  I  suffered  in  this  wealth  and  pomp  of  infernal 
horrors,  to  which  the  conviction  of  the  survival  of  man's 
consciousness  after  death — for  in  that  dream  I  firmly 
believed  that  my  body  was  dead  —  added  the  most 
terrifying  of  all ! 

The  relative  relief  I  felt,  when,  after  going  over  the 
last  scene,  I  saw  once  more  the  great  white  face  of  the 
dial  before  me  was  not  of  long  duration.  The  long, 
arrow-shaped  needle  was  pointing  on  the  colossal  disk 
at — seven  minutes  and  a-half  past  five  o'clock.  But,  before 
I  had  time  to  well  realize  the  change,  the  needle  moved 
slowly  backwards,  stopped  at  precisely  the  seventh 
minute,  and — 0  cursed  fate!  ...  I  found  myself 
driven  into  a  repetition  of  the  same  series  over  again ! 
Once  more  I  swam  underground,  and  saw,  and  heard,  and 
suffered  every  torture  that  hell  can  provide  ;  I  passed 
through  every  mental  anguish  known  to  man  or  fiend. 
I  returned  to  see  the  fatal  dial  and  its  needle — after  what 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  5  I 

appeared  to  me  an  eternity — moved,  as  before,  only  half 
a  minute  forward.  I  beheld  it,  with  renewed  terror, 
moving  back  again,  and  felt  myself  propelled  forward 
anew.  And  so  it  went  on,  and  on,  and  on,  time  after 
time,  in  what  seemed  to  me  an  endless  succession,  a  series 
which  never  had  any  beginning,  nor  would  it  ever  have 
an  end.     .     .     . 

Worst  of  all;  my  consciousness,  my  "I,"  had  appa- 
rently acquired  the  phenomenal  capacity  of  trebling, 
quadrupling,  and  even  of  decuplating  itself.  I  lived, 
felt  and  suffered,  in  the  same  space  of  time,  in  half-a- 
dozen  different  places  at  once,  passing  over  various  events 
of  my  life,  at  different  epochs,  and  under  the  most 
dissimilar  circumstances ;  though  predominant  over  all 
was  my  spiritual  experience  at  Kioto.  Thus,  as  in  the 
famous  fu gue  in  Don  Giovanni,  the  heart-rending  notes  of 
Elvira's  aria  of  despair  ring  high  above,  but  interfere  in 
no  way  with  the  melody  of  the  minuet,  the  song  of 
seduction,  and  the  chorus,  so  I  went  over  and  over  my 
travailed  woes,  the  feelings  of  agony  unspeakable  at  the 
awful  sights  of  my  vision,  the  repetition  of  which  blunted 
in  no  wise  even  a  single  pang  of  my  despair  and  horror; 
nor  did  these  feelings  weaken  in  the  least  scenes  and 
events  entirely  disconnected  with  the  first  one,  that  I  was 
living  through  again,  or  interfere  in  any  way  the  one 
with  the  other.  It  was  a  maddening  experience  !  A 
series  of  contrapuntal,  mental  phantasmagoria  from  real 
life.  Here  was  I,  during  the  same  half-a-minute  of  time, 
examining  with  cold  curiosity  the  mangled  remains  of  my 
sister's  husband;  following  with  the  same  indifference 
the  effects  of  the  news  on  her  brain,  as  in  my  first  Kioto 
vision,  and  feeling  at  the  same  time  hell-torture  for  these 
very  events,  as  when  I  returned  to  consciousness.  I  was 
listening  to  the  philosophical  discourses  of  the  Bonze, 


52  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

every  word  of  which  I  heard  and  understood,  and  was 
trying  to  laugh  him  to  scorn.  I  was  again  a  child,  then 
a  youth,  hearing  my  mother's  and  my  sweet  sister's 
voices,  admonishing  me  and  teaching  duty  to  all  men. 
I  was  saving  a  friend  from  drowning,  and  was  sneering 
at  his  aged  father  who  thanks  me  for  having  saved  a 
"soul"  yet  unprepared  to  meet  his  Maker. 

"  Speak  of  dual  consciousness,  you  psycho-physio- 
logists!"— I  cried,  in  one  of  the  moments  when  agony, 
mental  and  as  it  seemed  to  me  physical  also,  had  arrived 
at  a  degree  of  intensity  which  would  have  killed  a  dozen 
living  men;  "speak  of  your  psychological  and  physio- 
logical experiments,  you  schoolmen,  puffed  up  with 
pride  and  book-learning  !  Here  am  I  to  give  you  the 
lie.  .  .  ."  And  now  I  was  reading  the  works  and 
holding  converse  with  learned  professors  and  lecturers, 
who  had  led  me  to  my  fatal  scepticism.  And,  while 
arguing  the  impossibility  of  consciousness  divorced  from 
its  brain,  I  was  shedding  tears  of  blood  over  the  supposed 
fate  of  my  nieces  and  nephews.  More  terrible  than  all  : 
I  knew,  as  only  a  liberated  consciousness  can  know,  that  all 
I  had  seen  in  my  vision  at  Japan,  and  all  that  I  was 
seeing  and  hearing  over  and  over  again  now,  was  true  in 
every  point  and  detail,  that  it  was  a  long  string  of  ghastly 
and  terrible,  still  of  real,  actual,  facts. 

For,  perhaps,  the  hundredth  time,  I  had  rivetted  my 
attention  on  the  needle  of  the  clock,  I  had  lost  the 
number  of  my  gyrations  and  was  fast  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  would  never  stop,  that  conscious- 
ness, is,  after  all,  indestructible,  and  that  this  was  to  be 
my  punishment  in  Eternity.  I  was  beginning  to  realize 
from  personal  experience  how  the  condemned  sinners 
would  feel — "  were  not  eternal  damnation  a  logical  and 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  53 

mathematical  impossibility  in  an  ever  progressing  Uni- 
verse"— I  still  found  the  force  to  argue.  Yea,  indeed;  at 
this  hour  of  my  ever-increasing  agony,  my  conscious- 
ness— now  my  synonym  for  "I" — had  still  the  power  of 
revolting  at  certain  theological  claims,  of  denying  all 
their  propositions,  all — save  itself.  .  .  .  No ;  I 
denied  the  independent  nature  of  my  consciousness  no 
longer,  for  I  knew  it  now  to  be  such.  But  is  it  eternal 
withal?  0  thou  incomprehensible  and  terrible  Reality! 
But  if  thou  art  eternal,  who  then  art  thou? — since  there 
is  no  deity,  no  God.  Whence  dost  thou  come,  and  when 
didst  thou  first  appear,  if  thou  art  not  a  part  of  the  cold 
body  lying  yonder?  And  whither  dost  thou  lead  me, 
who  am  thyself,  and  shall  our  thought  and  fancy  have 
an  end?  What  is  thy  real  name,  thou  unfathomable 
Reality,    and    impenetrable    Mystery!     Oh,    I    would 

fain    annihilate  thee "  Soul- Vision"! — who 

speaks  of  Soul,  and  whose  voice  is  this?  ...  It  says 
that  I  see  now  for  myself,  that  there  is  a  Soul  in  man, 
after  all.  ...  I  deny  this.  My  Soul,  my  vital  Soul, 
or  the  Spirit  of  life,  has  expired  with  my  body,  with  the 
gray  matter  of  my  brain.  This  "  I "  of  mine,  this  con- 
sciousness, is  not  yet  proven  to  me  as  eternal.  Reincar- 
nation, in  which  the  Bonze  felt  so  anxious  I  should 
believe  may  be  true.  .  .  .  Why  not  ?  Is  not  the 
flower  born  year  after  year  from  the  same  root?  Hence 
this  " I"  once  separated  from  its  brain,  losing  its  balance, 
and  calling  forth  such  a  host  of  visions  .  .  .  before 
reincarnating.     .     .     . 

I  was  again  face  to  face  with  the  inexorable,  fatal 
clock.  And  as  I  was  watching  its  needle,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Bonze,  coming  out  of  the  depths  of  its  white 
face,  sajdng:  "  In  this  case,  I  fear,  you  would  only  have  to 
open  and   to  shut   the  temple  door,  over  and  over  again, 


54  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

(hiring  a  period  which,  however  short,  would  seem  to  you  an 
eternity.''''     .     .     . 

The  clock  had  vanished,  darkness  made  room  for  light, 
the  voice  of  my  old  friend  was  drowned  by  a  multitude  of 
voices  overhead  on  deck;  and  I  awoke  in  my  berth,  covered 
with  a  cold  perspiration,  and  faint  with  terror. 


VIII 
A  Tale  of  Woe 

We  were  at  Hamburg,  and  no  sooner  had  I  seen  my 
partners,  who  could  hardly  recognize  me,  than  with  their 
consent  and  good  wishes  I  started  for  Nuremberg. 

Half-an-hour  after  my  arrival,  the  last  doubt  with 
regard  to  the  correctness  of  my  vision  had  disappeared. 
The  reality  was  worse  than  any  expectations  could  have 
made  it,  and  I  was  henceforward  doomed  to  the  most 
desolate  life.  I  ascertained  that  I  had  seen  the  terrible 
tragedy  with  all  its  heartrending  details.  My  brother- 
in-law,  killed  under  the  wheels  of  a  machine ;  my  sister, 
insane,  and  now  rapidly  sinking  towards  her  end ;  my 
niece — the  sweet  flower  of  nature's  fairest  work — dis- 
honored, in  a  den  of  infamy ;  the  little  children  dead 
of  a  contagious  disease  in  an  orphanage  ;  my  last  sur- 
viving nephew  at  sea,  no  one  knew  where.  A  whole 
house,  a  home  of  love  and  peace,  scattered;  and  I,  left 
alone,  a  witness  of  this  world  of  death,  of  desolation  and 
dishonor.  The  news  filled  me  with  infinite  despair,  and  I 
sank  helpless  before  this  wholesale,  dire  disaster,  which 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  55 

rose  before  me  all  at  once.  The  shock  proved  too  much, 
and  I  fainted.  The  last  thing  I  heard  before  entirely 
losing  my  consciousness  was  a  remark  of  the  Burgmeister: 
"  Had  you,  before  leaving  Kioto,  telegraphed  to  the  city 
authorities  of  your  whereabouts,  and  of  your  intention  of 
coming  home  to  take  charge  of  your  young  relatives,  we 
might  have  placed  them  elsewhere,  and  thus  have  saved 
them  from  their  fate.  No  one  knew  that  the  children 
had  a  well-to-do  relative.  They  were  left  paupers  and 
had  to  be  dealt  with  as  such.  They  were  comparatively 
strangers  in  Nuremberg,  and  under  the  unfortunate 
circumstances  you  could  hardly  have  expected  anything 
else.     .     .     I  can  only  express  my  sincere  sorrow." 

It  was  this  terrible  knowledge  that  I  might,  at  any 
rate,  have  saved  my  young  niece  from  her  unmerited 
fate,  but  that  through  my  neglect  I  had  not  done  so,  that 
was  killing  me.  Had  I  but  followed  the  friendly  advice 
of  the  Bonze,  Tamoora,  and  telegraphed  to  the  authorities 
some  weeks  previous  to  my  return  much  might  have  been 
avoided.  It  was  all  this,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  I 
could  no  longer  doubt  clairvoyance  and  clairaudience — 
the  possibility  of  which  I  had  so  long  denied — that 
brought  me  so  heavily  down  upon  my  knees.  I  could 
avoid  the  censure  of  my  fellow-creatures,  but  I  could 
never  escape  the  stings  of  my  conscience,  the  reproaches 
of  my  own  aching  heart — no,  not  as  long  as  I  lived.  I 
cursed  my  stubborn  scepticism,  my  denial  of  facts, 
my  early  education,  I  cursed  myself,  and  the  whole 
world.     .     .     . 

For  several  days  I  contrived  not  to  sink  beneath  my 
load,  for  I  had  a  duty  to  perform  to  the  dead  and  to  the 
living.  But  my  sister  once  rescued  from  the  pauper's 
asylum,  placed  under  the  care  of  the  best  physicians, 
with  her  daughter  to  attend  to  her  last  moments,  and 


5^  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

the  Jewess,  whom  I  had  brought  to  confess  her  crime, 
safely  lodged  in  jail — my  fortitude  and  strength  sud- 
denly abandoned  me.  Hardly  a  week  after  my  arrival  I 
was  myself  no  better  than  a  raving  maniac,  helpless  in 
the  strong  grip  of  a  brain  fever.  For  several  weeks  I 
lay  between  life  and  death,  the  terrible  disease  defying 
the  skill  of  the  best  physicians.  At  last  my  strong  con- 
stitution prevailed,  and — to  my  life-long  sorrow — they 
proclaimed  me  saved. 

I  heard  the  news  with  a  bleeding  heart.  Doomed  to 
drag  the  loathsome  burden  of  life  henceforth  alone,  and 
in  constant  remorse;  hoping  for  no  help  or  remedy  on 
earth,  and  still  refusing  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
anything  better  than  a  short  survival  of  consciousness 
beyond  the  grave,  this  unexpected  return  to  life  added 
only  one  more  drop  of  gall  to  my  bitter  feelings.  They 
were  hardly  soothed  by  the  immediate  return,  during 
the  first  days  of  my  convalescence,  of  those  unwelcome 
and  unsought  for  visions,  whose  correctness  and  reality 
I  could  deny  no  more.  Alas  the  day !  they  were  no 
longer  in  my  sceptical,  blind  mind — 

The  children  of  an  idle  brain 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy  ; 

but  always  the  faithful  photographs  of  the  real  woes  and 
sufferings  of  my  fellow  creatures,  of  my  best  friends. 
.  .  .  Thus  I  found  myself  doomed,  whenever  I  was 
left  for  a  moment  alone,  to  the  helpless  torture  of  a 
chained  Prometheus.  During  the  still  hours  of  night, 
as  though  held  by  some  pitiless  iron  hand,  I  found  my- 
self led  to  my  sister's  bedside,  forced  to  watch  there 
hour  after  hour,  and  see  the  silent  disintegration  of  her 
wasted  organism;  to  witness  and  feel  the  sufferings  that 
her  own  tenantless  brain  could  no  longer  reflect  or  con- 
vey to  her  perceptions.     But  there  was  something  still 


A    BEWITCHED   LIFE  57 

more  horrible  to  barb  the  dart  that  could  never  be  ex- 
tricated. I  had  to  look,  by  day,  at  the  childish  innocent 
face  of  my  young  niece,  so  sublimely  simple  and  guileless 
in  her  pollution  ;  and  to  witness,  by  night,  how  the  full 
knowledge  and  recollection  of  her  dishonor,  of  her  young 
life  now  for  ever  blasted,  came  to  her  in  her  dreams,  as 
soon  as  she  was  asleep.  These  dreams  took  an  objective 
form  to  me,  as  they  had  done  on  the  steamer ;  I  had  to 
live  them  over  again,  night  after  night,  and  feel  the  same 
terrible  despair.  For  now,  since  I  believed  in  the  reality 
of  seership,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  in  our 
bodies  lies  hidden,  as  in  the  caterpillar,  the  chrysalis  / 
which  may  contain  in  its  turn  the  butterfly — the  symbol 
of  the  soul — I  no  longer  remained  indifferent,  as  of  yore, 
to  what  I  witnessed  in  my  Soul-life.  Something  had 
suddenly  developed  in  me,  had  broken  loose  from  its  icy 
cocoon.  Evidently  I  no  longer  saw  only  in  consequence 
of  the  identification  of  my  inner  nature  with  a  Daij-Dzin; 
my  visions  arose  in  consequence  of  a  direct  personal 
psychic  development,  the  fiendish  creatures  only  taking 
care  that  I  should  see  nothing  of  an  agreeable  or  elevating 
nature.  Thus,  now,  not  an  unconscious  pang  in  my 
dying  sister's  emaciated  body,  not  a  thrill  of  horror  in 
my  niece's  restless  sleep  at  the  recollection  of  the  crime 
perpetrated  upon  her,  an  innocent  child,  but  found  a 
responsive  echo  in  my  bleeding  heart.  The  deep  fountain 
of  sympathetic  love  and  sorrow  had  gushed  out  from  the 
physical  heart,  and  was  now  loudly  echoed  by  the 
awakened  soul  separated  from  the  body.  Thus  had  I  to 
drain  the  cup  of  misery  to  the  very  dregs  !  Woe  is  me, 
it  was  a  daily  and  nightly  torture!  Oh,  how  I  mourned 
over  my  proud  folly;  how  I  was  punished  for  having 
neglected  to  avail  myself  at  Kioto  of  the  proffered  purifi- 
cation, for  now  I  had  come  to  believe  even  in  the  efficacy 


5»  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

of  the  latter.  The  Daij-Dzin  had  indeed  obtained  control 
over  me;  and  the  fiend  had  let  loose  all  the  dogs  of  hell 
upon  his  victim.     .     ."   . 

At  last  the  awful  gulf  was  reached  and  crossed.  The 
poor  insane  martyr  dropped  into  her  dark,  and  now 
welcome  grave,  leaving  behind  her,  but  for  a  few  short 
months,  her  young,  her  first-born,  daughter.  Consump- 
tion made  short  work  of  that  tender  girlish  frame. 
Hardly  a  year  after  my  arrival,  I  was  left  alone  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  my  only  surviving  nephew  having 
expressed  a  desire  to  follow  his  sea-faring  career. 

And  now,  the  sequel  of  my  sad,  sad  story  is  soon  told. 
A  wreck,  a  prematurely  old  man,  looking  at  thirty  as 
though  sixty  winters  had  passed  over  my  doomed  head, 
and  owing  to  the  never-ceasing  visions,  myself  daily  on 
the  verge  of  insanity,  I  suddenly  formed  a  desperate 
resolution.  I  would  return  to  Kioto  and  seek  out  the 
Yamabooshi.  I  would  prostrate  myself  at  the  feet  of  the 
holy  man,  and  would  not  leave  him  until  he  had  recalled 
the  Frankenstein  he  had  raised,  the  Frankenstein  with 
whom  at  the  time,  it  was  I,  myself,  who  would  not  part, 
through  my  insolent  pride  and  unbelief. 

Three  months  later  I  was  in  my  Japanese  home  again, 
and  I  at  once  sought  out  my  old,  venerable  Bonze, 
Tamoora  Hideyeri,  I  now  implored  him  to  take  me  with- 
out an  hour's  delay,  to  the  Yamabooshi,  the  innocent 
cause  of  my  daily  tortures.  His  answer  but  placed  the 
last,  the  supreme  seal  on  my  doom  and  tenfold  intensified 
my  despair.  The  Yamabooshi  had  left  the  country  for 
lands  unknown!  He  had  departed  one  fine  morning  into 
the  interior,  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  according  to  custom, 
would  be  absent,  unless  natural  death  shortened  the 
period,  for  no  less  than  seven  years!     .     .     . 

In  this  mischance,  I  applied  for  help  and  protection  to 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  59 

other  learned  Yamabooshis  j  and  though  well  aware  how 
useless  it  was  in  my  case  to  seek  efficient  cure  from  any 
other  "  adept,"  my  excellent  old  friend  did  everything 
he  could  to  help  me  in  my  misfortune.  But  it  was  to  no 
purpose,  and  the  canker-worm  of  my  life's  despair  could 
not  be  thoroughly  extricated.  I  found  from  them  that 
not  one  of  these  learned  .  men  could  promise  to  relieve 
me  entirely  from  the  demon  of  clairvoyant  obsession. 
It  was  he  who  raised  certain  Daij-Dzins,  calling  on  them 
to  show  futurity,  or  things  that  had  already  come  to 
pass,  who  alone  had  full  control  over  them.  With  kind 
sympathy,  which  I  had  now  learned  to  appreciate,  the 
holy  men  invited  me  to  join  the  group  of  their  disciples, 
and  learn  from  them  what  I  could  do  for  myself.  "  Will 
alone,  faith  in  your  own  soul  powers,  can  help  you  now," 
they  said.  "  But  it  may  take  several  years  to  undo  even 
a  part  of  the  great  mischief;"  they  added.  "A  Daij-Dzin 
is  easily  dislodged  in  the  beginning;  if  left  alone,  he  takes 
possession  of  a  man's  nature,  and  it  becomes  almost 
impossible  to  uproot  the  fiend  without  killing  his  victim." 
Persuaded  that  there  was  nothing  but  this  left  for  me 
to  do,  I  gratefully  assented,  doing  my  best  to  believe  in 
all  that  these  holy  men  believed  in,  and  yet  ever  failing 
to  do  so  in  my  heart.  The  demon  of  unbelief  and  all- 
denial  seemed  rooted  in  me  more  firmly  even  than  the 
Daij-Dzin.  Still  I  did  all  I  could  do,  decided  as  I  was 
not  to  lose  my  last  chance  of  salvation.  Therefore,  I 
proceded  without  delay  to  free  myself  from  the  world 
and  my  commercial  obligations,  in  order  to  live  for 
several  years  an  independent  life.  I  settled  my  accounts 
with  my  Hamburg  partners  and  severed  my  connection 
with  the  firm.  Notwithstanding  considerable  financial 
losses  resulting  from  such  a  precipitate  liquidation,  I 
found  myself,  after  closing  the  accounts,  a  far   richer 


60  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

man  than  I  had  thought  I  was.  But  wealth  had  no 
longer  any  attraction  for  me,  now  that  I  had  no  one  to 
share  it  with,  no  one  to  work  for.  Life  had  become  a 
burden  ;  and  such  was  my  indifference  to  my  future, 
that  while  giving  away  all  my  fortune  to  my  nephew — 
in  case  he  should  return  alive  from  his  sea  voyage — I 
should  have  neglected  entirely  even  a  small  provision 
for  myself,  had  not  my  native  partner  interfered  and 
insisted  upon  my  making  it.  I  now  recognized  with 
Lao-tze,  that  Knowledge  was  the  only  firm  hold  for  a 
man  to  trust  to,  as  it  is  the  only  one  that  cannot  be 
shaken  by  any  tempest.  Wealth  is  a  weak  anchor  in 
days  of  sorrow,  and  self-conceit  the  most  fatal  counsellor. 
Hence  I  followed  the  advice  of  my  friends,  and  laid  aside 
for  myself  a  modest  sum,  which  would  be  sufficient  to 
assure  me  a  small  income  for  life,  or  if  I  ever  left  my 
new  friends  and  instructors.  Having  settled  my  earthly 
accounts  and  disposed  of  my  belongings  at  Kioto,  I 
joined  the  "  Masters  of  the  Long  Vision,"  who  took  me 
to  their  mysterious  abode.  There  I  remained  for  several 
years,  studying  very  earnestly  and  in  the  most  complete 
solitude,  seeing  no  one  but  a  few  of  the  members  of  our 
religious  community. 

Many  are  the  mysteries  of  nature  that  I  have  fathomed 
since  then,  and  many  a  secret  folio  from  the  library  of 
Tzion-ene  have  I  devoured,  obtaining  thereby  mastery 
over  several  kinds  of  invisible  beings  of  a  lower  order. 
But  the  great  secret  of  power  over  the  terrible  Daij-Dzin 
I  could  not  get.  It  remains  in  the  possession  of  a  very 
limited  number  of  the  highest  Initiates  of  Lao-tze,  the 
great  majority  of  the  Yamabooshis  themselves  being 
ignorant  how  to  obtain  such  mastery  over  the  dangerous 
Elemental.  One  who  would  reach  such  power  of  control 
would    have   to    become    entirely    identified    with    the 


A    BEWITCHED    LIFE  6 1 

Yamabooshis,  to  accept  their  views  and  beliefs,  and  to 
attain  the  highest  degree  of  Initiation.  Very  naturally, 
I  was  found  unfit  to  join  the  Fraternity,  owing  to  many 
insurmountable  reasons  besides  my  congenital  and  in- 
eradicable scepticism,  though  I  tried  hard  to  believe. 
Thus,  partially  relieved  of  my  affliction  and  taught  how 
to  conjure  the  unwelcome  visions  away,  I  still  remained, 
and  do  remain  to  this  day,  helpless  to  prevent  their  forced 
appearance  before  me  now  and  then. 

It  was  after  assuring  myself  of  my  unfitness  for  the 
exalted  position  of  an  independent  Seer  and  Adept  that 
I  reluctantly  gave  up  any  further  trial.  Nothing  had 
been  heard  of  the  holy  man,  the  first  innocent  cause  of 
my  misfortune  ;  and  the  old  Bonze  himself,  who  occa- 
sionally visited  me  in  my  retreat,  either  could  not,  or 
would  not,  inform  me  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  Yama- 
booshi.  When,  therefore,  I  had  to  give  up  all  hope  of 
his  ever  relieving  me  entirely  from  my  fatal  gift,  I 
resolved  to  return  to  Europe,  to  settle  in  solitude  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  With  this  object  in  view,  I  purchased 
through  my  late  partners  the  Swiss  chalet  in  which  my 
hapless  sister  and  I  were  born,  where  I  had  grown  up 
under  her  care,  and  selected  it  for  my  future  hermitage. 

When  bidding  me  farewell  for  ever  on  the  steamer 
which  took  me  back  to  my  fatherland,  the  good  old 
Bonze  tried  to  console  me  for  my  disappointments. 
"  My  son,"  he  said,  "  regard  all  that  happened  to  you 
as  your  Karma — a  just  retribution.  No  one  who  has 
subjected  himself  willingly  to  the  power  of  a  Daij-Dzin 
can  ever  hope  to  become  a  Rahat  (an  Adept),  a  high- 
souled  Yamabooshi — unless  immediately  purified.  At 
best,  as  in  your  case,  he  may  become  fitted  to  oppose 
and  to  successfully  fight  off  the  fiend.  Like  a  scar  left 
after  a  poisonous  wound,  tlir  trace  of  a  Daij-Dzin  can  never 


62  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

be  effaced  from  the  Soul  until  purified  by  a  new  rebirth. 
Withal,  feel  not  dejected,  but  be  of  good  cheer  in  your 
affliction,  since  it  has  led  you  to  acquire  true  knowledge, 
and  to  accept  many  a  truth  you  would  have  otherwise 
rejected  with  contempt.  And  of  this  priceless  knowledge, 
acquired  through  suffering  and  personal  efforts — no 
Daij-Dzin  can  ever  deprive  you.  Fare  thee  well,  then,  and 
may  the  Mother  of  Mercy,  the  great  Queen  of  Heaven, 
afford  you  comfort  and  protection." 

We  parted,  and  since  then  I  have  led  the  life  of  an 
anchorite,  in  constant  solitude  and  study.  Though  still 
occasionally  afflicted,  I  do  not  regret  the  years  I  have 
passed  under  the  instruction  of  the  Yamabooshis,  but 
feel  gratified  for  the  knowledge  received.  Of  the  priest 
Tamoora  Hideyeri  I  think  always  with  sincere  affection 
and  respect.  I  corresponded  regularly  with  him  to  the 
day  of  his  death  ;  an  event  which,  with  all  its  to  me 
painful  details,  I  had  the  unthanked-for  privilege  of 
witnessing  across  the  seas,  at  the  very  hour  in  which  it 
occurred. 


THE  CAVE  OF  THE  ECHOES 


THE  CAVE  OF  THE  ECHOES 

A  Strange  but  True  Story* 


N  one  of  the  distant  governments  of 
the  Russian  empire,  in  a  small  town 
on  the  borders  of  Siberia,  a  mysterious 
tragedy  occurred  more  than  thirty 
years    ago.     About    six   versts    from 

the  little  town  of  P ,  famous  for 

the  wild  beauty  of  its  scenery,  and 
for  the  wealth  of  its  inhabitants — 
generally  proprietors  of  mines  and  of 
iron  foundries — stood  an  aristocratic 
mansion.  Its  household  consisted  of 
the  master,  a  rich  old  bachelor  and  his 
brother,  who  was  a  widower  and  the 
father  of  two  sons  and  three  daughters.  It  was  known 
that  the  proprietor,  Mr.  Izvertzoff,  had  adopted  his 
brother's  children,  and,  having  formed  an  especial  attach- 
ment for  his  eldest  nephew,  Nicolas,  he  had  made  him 
the  sole  heir  of  his  numerous  estates. 

Time  rolled  on.  The  uncle  was  getting  old,  the 
nephew  was  coming  of  age.     Days  and  years  had  passed 

*  This  story  is  given  from  the  narrative  of  an  eye-witness,  a 
Russian  gentleman,  very  pious,  and  fully  trustworthy.  Moreover, 
the  facts  are  copied  from  the  police  records  of  P .  The  eye- 
witness in  question  attributes  it,  of  course,  partly  to  divine 
interference  and  partly  to  the  Evil  One. — H.  P.  B. 


66  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

in  monotonous  serenity,  when,  on  the  hitherto  clear 
horizon  of  the  quiet  family,  appeared  a  cloud.  On  an 
unlucky  day  one  of  the  nieces  took  it  into  her  head  to 
study  the  zither.  The  instrument  being  of  purely  Teu- 
tonic origin,  and  no  teacher  of  it  residing  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, the  indulgent  uncle  sent  to  St.  Petersburg 
for  both.  After  diligent  search  only  one  Professor 
could  be  found  willing  to  trust  himself  in  such  close 
proximity  to  Siberia.  It  was  an  old  German  artist,  who, 
sharing  his  affections  equally  between  his  instrument 
and  a  pretty  blonde  daughter,  would  part  with  neither. 
And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  one  fine  morning  the  old 
Professor  arrived  at  the  mansion,  with  his  music  box 
under  one  arm  and  his  fair  Munchen  leaning  on  the 
other. 

From  that  day  the  little  cloud  began  growing  rapidly ; 
for  every  vibration  of  the  melodious  instrument  found 
a  responsive  echo  in  the  old  bachelor's  heart.  Music 
awakens  love,  they  say,  and  the  work  begun  by  the 
zither  was  completed  by  Munchen's  blue  eyes.  At  the 
expiration  of  six  months  the  niece  had  become  an 
expert  zither  player,  and  the  uncle  was  desperately 
in  love. 

One  morning,  gathering  his  adopted  family  around 
him,  he  embraced  them  all  very  tenderly,  promised  to 
remember  them  in  his  will,  and  wound  up  by  declaring 
his  unalterable  resolution  to  marry  the  blue-eyed  Mun- 
chen. After  this  he  fell  upon  their  necks  and  wept  in 
silent  rapture.  The  family,  understanding  that  they 
were  cheated  out  of  the  inheritance,  also  wept ;  but  it 
was  for  another  cause.  Having  thus  wept,  they  con- 
soled themselves  and  tried  to  rejoice,  for  the  old  gentle- 
man was  sincerely  beloved  by  all.  Not  all  of  them 
rejoiced,  though.     Nicolas,  who  had  himself  been  smitten 


THE   CAVE   OF   THE    ECHOES  67 

to  the  heart  by  the  pretty  German,  and  who  found  him- 
self defrauded  at  once  of  his  belle  and  of  his  uncle's 
money,  neither  rejoiced  nor  consoled  himself,  but  dis- 
appeared for  a  whole  day. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Izvertzoff  had  given  orders  to  prepare 
his  traveling  carriage  on  the  following  day,  and  it  was 
whispered  that  he  was  going  to  the  chief  town  of  the 
district,  at  some  distance  from  his  home,  with  the  in- 
tention of  altering  his  will.  Though  very  wealthy,  he 
had  no  superintendent  on  his  estate,  but  kept  his  books 
himself.  The  same  evening  after  supper,  he  was  heard 
in  his  room,  angrily  scolding  his  servant,  who  had  been 
in  his  service  for  over  thirty  years.  This  man,  Ivan, 
was  a  native  of  northern  Asia,  from  Kamschatka  ;  he 
had  been  brought  up  by  the  family  in  the  Christian 
religion,  and  was  thought  to  be  very  much  attached  to 
his  master.  A  few  days  later,  when  the  first  tragic  cir- 
cumstance I  am  about  to  relate  had  brought  all  the 
police  force  to  the  spot,  it  was  remembered  that  on  that 
night  Ivan  was  drunk ;  that  his  master,  who  had  a 
horror  of  this  vice  had  paternally  thrashed  him,  and 
turned  him  out  of  his  room,  and  that  Ivan  had  been 
seen  reeling  out  of  the  door,  and  had  been  heard  to 
mutter  threats. 

On  the  vast  domain  of  Mr.  Izvertzoff  there  was  a 
curious  cavern,  which  excited  the  curiosity  of  all  who 
visited  it.     It  exists  to  this  day,  and  is  well   known  to 

every  inhabitant  of  P .     A  pine  forest,  commencing 

a  few  feet  from  the  garden  gate,  climbs  in  steep  terraces 
up  a  long  range  of  rocky  hills,  which  it  covers  with  a 
broad  belt  of  impenetrable  vegetation.  The  grotto  lead- 
ing into  the  cavern,  which  is  known  as  the  "Cave  of  the 
Echoes,"  is  situated  about  half  a  mile  from  the  site  of 
the  mansion,  from  which  it  appears  as  a  small  excavation 


68  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

in  the  hill-side,  almost  hidden  by  luxuriant  plants,  but 
not  so  completely  as  to  prevent  any  person  entering 
it  from  being  readily  seen  from  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  house.  Entering  the  Grotto,  the  explorer  finds  at 
the  rear  a  narrow  cleft;  having  passed  through  which 
he  emerges  into  a  lofty  cavern,  feebly  lighted  through 
fissures  in  the  vaulted  roof,  fifty  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  cavern  itself  is  immense,  and  would  easily  hold 
between  two  and  three  thousand  people.  A  part  of  it, 
in  the  days  of  Mr.  Izvertzoff,  was  paved  with  flagstones, 
and  was  often  used  in  the  summer  as  a  ball-room  by 
picnic  parties.  Of  an  irregular  oval,  it  gradually  nar- 
rows into  a  broad  corridor,  which  runs  for  several  miles 
underground,  opening  here  and  there  into  other  cham- 
bers, as  large  and  lofty  as  the  ball-room,  but,  unlike  this, 
impassable  otherwise  than  in  a  boat,  as  they  are  always 
full  of  water.  These  natural  basins  have  the  reputation 
of  being  unfathomable. 

On  the  margin  of  the  first  of  these  is  a  small  platform, 
with  several  mossy  rustic  seats  arranged  on  it,  and  it  is 
from  this  spot  that  the  phenomenal  echoes,  which  give 
the  cavern  its  name,  are  heard  in  all  their  wierdness.  A 
word  pronounced  in  a  whisper,  or  even  a  sigh,  is  caught 
up  by  endless  mocking  voices,  and  instead  of  diminish- 
ing in  volume,  as  honest  echoes  do,  the  sound  grows 
louder  and  louder  at  every  successive  repetition,  until  at 
last  it  bursts  forth  like  the  repercussion  of  a  pistol  shot, 
and  recedes  in  a  plaintive  wail  down  the  corridor. 

On  the  day  in  question,  Mr.  Izvertzoff  had  mentioned 
his  intention  of  having  a  dancing  party  in  this  cave  on 
his  wedding  day,  which  he  had  fixed  for  an  early  date. 
On  the  following  morning,  while  preparing  for  his  drive, 
he  was  seen  by  his  family  entering  the  grotto,  accompa- 
nied only  by  his  Siberian  servant.     Half-an-hour  later, 


THE   CAVE   OF   THE    ECHOES  69 

Ivan  returned  to  the  mansion  for  a  snuff-box,  which  his 
master  had  forgotten  in  his  room,  and  went  back  with  it 
to  the  cave.  An  hour  later  the  whole  house  was  startled 
by  his  loud  cries.  Pale  and  dripping  with  water,  Ivan 
rushed  in  like  a  madman,  and  declared  that  Mr.  Izvertzoff 
was  nowhere  to  be  found  in  the  cave.  Thinking  he  had 
fallen  into  the  lake,  he  had  dived  into  the  first  basin  in 
search  of  him  and  was  nearly  drowned  himself. 

The  day  passed  in  vain  attempts  to  find  the  body. 
The  police  filled  the  house,  and  louder  than  the  rest  in 
his  despair  was  Nicolas,  the  nephew,  who  had  returned 
home  only  to  meet  the  sad  tidings. 

A  dark  suspicion  fell  upon  Ivan,  the  Siberian.  He 
had  been  struck  by  his  master  the  night  before,  and  had 
been  heard  to  swear  revenge.  He  had  accompanied  him 
alone  to  the  cave,  and  when  his  room  was  searched,  a 
box  full  of  rich  family  jewelry,  known  to  have  been 
carefully  kept  in  Mr.  Izvertzoff's  apartment,  was  found 
under  Ivan's  bedding.  Vainly  did  the  serf  call  God  to 
witness  that  the  box  had  been  given  to  him  in  charge  by 
his  master  himself,  just  before  they  proceeded  to  the 
cave ;  that  it  was  the  latter's  purpose  to  have  the  jewelry 
reset,  as  he  intended  it  for  a  wedding  present  to  his  bride; 
and  that  he,  Ivan,  would  willingly  give  his  own  life  to 
recall  that  of  his  master,  if  he  knew  him  to  be  dead.  No 
heed  was  paid  to  him,  however,  and  he  was  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison  upon  a  charge  of  murder.  There  he 
was  left,  for  under  the  Russian  law  a  criminal  cannot  — 
at  any  rate,  he  could  not  in  those  days  —  be  sentenced 
for  a  crime,  however  conclusive  the  circumstantial  evi- 
dence, unless  he  confessed  his  guilt. 

After  a  week  had  passed  in  useless  search,  the  family 
arrayed  themselves  in  deep  mourning;  and,  as  the  will 
as   originally   drawn   remained   without   a   codicil,   the 


7°  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

whole  of  the  property  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
nephew.  The  old  teacher  and  his  daughter  bore  this 
sudden  reverse  of  fortune  with  true  Germanic  phlegm, 
and  prepared  to  depart.  Taking  again  his  zither  under 
one  arm,  the  old  man  was  about  to  lead  away  his  Mun- 
chen  by  the  other,  when  the  nephew  stopped  him  by 
offering  himself  as  the  fair  damsel's  husband  in  the  place 
of  his  departed  uncle.  The  change  was  found  to  be  an 
agreeable  one,  and,  without  much  ado,  the  young  people 
were  married. 

Ten  years  rolled  away,  and  we  meet  the  happy  family 
once  more  at  the  beginning  of  1859.  The  fair  Munchen 
had  grown  fat  and  vulgar.  From  the  day  of  the  old 
man's  disappearance,  Nicolas  had  become  morose  and 
retired  in  his  habits,  and  many  wondered  at  the  change 
in  him,  for  now  he  was  never  seen  to  smile.  It  seemed 
as  if  his  only  aim  in  life  were  to  find  out  his  uncle's 
murderer,  or  rather  to  bring  Ivan  to  confess  his  guilt. 
But  the  man  still  persisted  that  he  was  innocent. 

An  only  son  had  been  born  to  the  young  couple,  and  a 
strange  child  it  was.  Small,  delicate,  and  ever  ailing, 
his  frail  life  seemed  to  hang  by  a  thread.  When  his 
features  were  in  repose,  his  resemblance  to  his  uncle  was 
so  striking  that  the  members  of  the  family  often  shrank 
from  him  in  terror.  It  was  the  pale  shriveled  face  of  a 
man  of  sixty  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  child  nine  years 
old.  He  was  never  seen  either  to  laugh  or  to  play,  but, 
perched  in  his  high  chair,  would  gravely  sit  there,  fold- 
ing his  arms  in  a  way  peculiar  to  the  late  Mr.  Izvertzoff ; 
and  thus  he  would  remain  for  hours,  drowsy  and  motion- 
less. His  nurses  were  often  seen  furtively  crossing 
themselves  at  night,  upon  approaching  him,  and  not  one 
of  them  would  consent  to  sleep  alone  with  him  in  the 


THE  CAVE   OF  THE   ECHOES  7  I 

nursery.  His  father's  behavior  towards  him  was  still 
more  strange.  He  seemed  to  love  him  passionately,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  hate  him  bitterly.  He  seldom  em- 
braced or  caressed  the  child,  but,  with  livid  cheek  and 
staring  eye,  he  would  pass  long  hours  watching  him,  as 
the  child  sat  quietly  in  his  corner,  in  his  goblin-like, 
old-fashioned  way. 

The  child  had  never  left  the  estate,  and  few  outside 
the  family  knew  of  his  existence. 

About  the  middle  of  July,  a  tall  Hungarian  traveler, 
preceded    by  a  great  reputation  for   eccentricity,  wealth 

and    mysterious    powers,  arrived  at  the  town  of    P 

from  the  North,  where,  it  was  said,  he  had  resided  for 
many  years.  He  settled  in  the  little  town,  in  company 
with  a  Shaman  or  South  Siberian  magician,  on  whom 
he  was  said  to  make  mesmeric  experiments.  He  gave 
dinners  and  parties,  and  invariably  exhibited  his  Shaman, 
of  whom  he  felt  very  proud,  for  the  amusement  of  his 
guests.  One  day  the  notables  of  P made  an  unex- 
pected invasion  of  the  domains  of  Nicolas  Izvertzoff, 
and  requested  the  loan  of  his  cave  for  an  evening  enter- 
tainment. Nicolas  consented  with  great  reluctance,  and 
only  after  still  greater  hesitancy  was  he  prevailed  upon 
to  join  the  party. 

The  first  cavern  and  the  platform  beside  the  bottom- 
less lake  glittered  with  lights.  Hundreds  of  flickering 
candles  and  torches,  stuck  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks, 
illuminated  the  place  and  drove  the  shadows  from  the 
mossy  nooks  and  corners,  where  they  had  crouched  un- 
disturbed for  many  years.  The  stalactites  on  the  walls 
sparkled  brightly,  and  the  sleeping  echoes  were  suddenly 
awakened  by  a  joyous  confusion  of  laughter  and  conver- 
sation. The  Shaman,  who  was  never  lost  sight  of  by 
his   friend    and    patron,   sat  in   a  corner,  entranced   as 


72  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

usual.  Crouched  on  a  projecting  rock,  about  midway 
between  the  entrance  and  the  water,  with  his  lemon- 
yellow,  wrinkled  face,  flat  nose,  and  thin  beard,  he 
looked  more  like  an  ugly  stone  idol  than  a  human  being. 
Many  of  the  company  pressed  around  him  and  received 
correct  answers  to  their  questions,  the  Hungarian  cheer- 
fully submitting  his  mesmerized  "subject"  to  cross- 
examination. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  party,  a  lady,  remarked  that  it 
was  in  that  very  cave  that  old  Mr.  Izvertzoff  had  so  un- 
accoutably  disappeared  ten  years  before.  The  foreigner 
appeared  interested,  and  desired  to  learn  more  of  the 
circumstances,  so  Nicolas  was  sought  amid  the  crowd 
and  led  before  the  eager  group.  He  was  the  host  and 
he  found  it  impossible  to  refuse  the  demanded  narrative. 
He  repeated  the  sad  tale  in  a  trembling  voice,  with  a 
pallid  cheek,  and  tears  were  seen  glittering  in  his  fever- 
ish eyes.  The  company  were  greatly  affected,  and  enco- 
miums upon  the  behavior  of  the  loving  nephew  in 
honoring  the  memory  of  his  uncle  and  benefactor  were 
freely  circulating  in  whispers,  when  suddenly  the  voice 
of  Nicolas  became  choked,  his  eyes  started  from  their 
sockets,  and  with  a  suppressed  groan,  he  staggered  back. 
Every  eye  in  the  crowd  followed  with  curiosity  his 
haggard  look,  as  it  fell  and  remained  riveted  upon  a 
weazened  little  face,  that  peeped  from  behind  the  back 
of  the  Hungarian. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  Who  brought  you  here, 
child  ?"  gasped  out  Nicolas,  as  pale  as  death. 

"I  was  in  bed,  papa;  this  man  came  to  me,  and 
brought  me  here  in  his  arms,"  answered  the  boy  simply, 
pointing  to  the  Shaman,  beside  whom  he  stood  upon 
the  rock,  and  who,  with  his  eyes  closed,  kept  swaying 
himself  to  and  fro  like  a  living  pendulum. 


THE   CAVE   OF   THE    ECHOES  73 

"  That  is  very  strange,"  remarked  one  of  the  guests, 
"  for  the  man  has  never  moved  from  his  place." 

"Good  God!  what  an  extraordinary  resemblance  !" 
muttered  an  old  resident  of  the  town,  a  friend  of  the 
lost  man. 

"You  lie,  child  !  "  fiercely  exclaimed  the  father.  "Go 
to  bed  ;  this  is  no  place  for  you." 

"  Come,  come,"  interposed  the  Hungarian,  with  a 
strange  expression  on  his  face,  and  encircling  with  his 
arm  the  slender  childish  figure ;  "  the  little  fellow  has 
seen  the  double  of  my  Shaman,  which  roams  sometimes 
far  away  from  his  body,  and  has  mistaken  the  phantom 
for  the  man  himself.  Let  him  remain  with  us  for  a 
while." 

At  these  strange  words  the  guests  stared  at  each  other 
in  mute  surprise,  while  some  piously  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  spitting  aside,  presumably  at  the  devil  and  all 
his  works. 

"  By-the-bye,"  continued  the  Hungarian  with  a  pecu- 
liar firmness  of  accent,  and  addressing  the  company 
rather  than  any  one  in  particular;  "why  should  we  not 
try,  with  the  help  of  my  Shaman,  to  unravel  the  mystery 
hanging  over  the  tragedy  ?  Is  the  suspected  party  still 
lying  in  prison  ?  What  ?  he  has  not  confessed  up  to 
now  ?  This  is  surely  very  strange.  But  now  we  will 
learn  the  truth  in  a  few  minutes  !     Let  all  keep  silent !  " 

He  then  approached  the  Tehuktchene,  and  immediately 
began  his  performance  without  so  much  as  asking  the 
consent  of  the  master  of  the  place.  The  latter  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot,  as  if  petrified  with  horror,  and  unable 
to  articulate  a  word.  The  suggestion  met  with  general 
approbation,  save  from  him  ;  and  the  police  inspector, 
Col.  S ,  especially  approved  of  the  idea. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  mesmerizer  in  soft 

/ 


74  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

tones,  "  allow  me  for  this  once  to  proceed  otherwise  than 
in  my  general  fashion.  I  will  employ  the  method  of 
native  magic.  It  is  more  appropriate  to  this  wild  place, 
and  far  more  effective  as  you  will  find,  than  our  European 
method  of  mesmerization." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  drew  from  a  bag 
that  never  left  his  person,  first  a  small  drum,  and  then 
two  little  phials  —  one  full  of  fluid,  the  other  empty. 
With  the  contents  of  the  former  he  sprinkled  the  Sha- 
man, who  fell  to  trembling  and  nodding  more  violently 
than  ever.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  perfume  of  spicy 
odors,  and  the  atmosphere  itself  seemed  to  become 
clearer.  Then,  to  the  horror  of  those  present,  he  ap- 
proached the  Tibetan,  and  taking  a  miniature  stiletto 
from  his  pocket,  he  plunged  the  sharp  steel  into  the 
man's  forearm,  and  drew  blood  from  it,  which  he  caught 
in  the  empty  phial.  When  it  was  half  filled,  he  pressed 
the  orifice  of  the  wound  with  his  thumb,  and  stopped  the 
flow  of  blood  as  easily  as  if  he  had  corked  a  bottle,  after 
which  he  sprinkled  the  blood  over  the  little  boy's  head. 
He  then  suspended  the  drum  from  his  neck,  and,  with 
two  ivory  drum-sticks,  which  were  covered  with  magic 
signs  and  letters,  he  began  beating  a  sort  of  reveille,  to 
drum  up  the  spirits,  as  he  said. 

The  bystanders,  half-shocked  and  half-terrified  by 
these  extraordinary  proceedings,  eagerly  crowded  round 
him,  and  for  a  few  moments  a  dead  silence  reigned 
throughout  the  lofty  cavern.  Nicolas,  with  his  face 
livid  and  corpse-like,  stood  speechless  as  before.  The 
mesmerizer  had  placed  himself  between  the  Shaman  and 
the  platform,  when  he  began  slowly  drumming.  The 
first  notes  were  muffled,  and  vibrated  so  softly  in  the  air 
that  they  awakened  no  echo,  but  the  Shaman  quickened 
his  pendulum-like  motion  and  the  child  became  restless. 


THE   CAVE   OF   THE    ECHOES  75 

The  drummer  then  began  a  slow  chant,  low,  impressive 
and  solemn. 

As  the  unknown  words  issued  from  his  lips,  the  flames 
of  the  candles  and  torches  wavered  and  flickered,  until 
they  began  dancing  in  rhythm  with  the  chant.  A  cold 
wind  came  wheezing  from  the  dark  corridors  beyond 
the  water,  leaving  a  plaintive  echo  in  its  trail.  Then 
a  sort  of  nebulous  vapor,  seeming  to  ooze  from  the  rocky 
ground  and  walls,  gathered  about  the  Shaman  and 
the  boy.  Around  the  latter  the  aura  was  silvery  and 
transparent,  but  the  cloud  which  enveloped  the  former 
was  red  and  sinister.  Approaching  nearer  to  the  plat- 
form the  magician  beat  a  louder  roll  upon  the  drum,  and 
this  time  the  echo  caught  it  up  with  terrific  effect !  It 
reverberated  near  and  far  in  incessant  peals ;  one  wail 
followed  another,  louder  and  louder,  until  the  thunder- 
ing roar  seemed  the  chorus  of  a  thousand  demon  voices 
rising  from  the  fathomless  depths  of  the  lake.  The 
water  itself,  whose  surface,  illuminated  by  many  lights, 
had  previously  been  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  glass,  became 
suddenly  agitated,  as  if  a  powerful  gust  of  wind  had 
swept  over  its  unruffled  face. 

Another  chant,  and  a  roll  of  the  drum,  and  the  moun- 
tain trembled  to  its  foundation  with  the  cannon-like 
peals  which  rolled  through  the  dark  and  distant  corri- 
dors. The  Shaman's  body  rose  two  yards  in  the  air,  and 
nodding  and  swaying,  sat,  self-suspended  like  an  appari- 
tion. But  the  transformation  which  now  occurred  in 
the  boy  chilled  everyone,  as  they  speechlessly  watched 
the  scene.  The  silvery  cloud  about  the  boy  now  seemed 
to  lift  him,  too,  into  the  air ;  but,  unlike  the  Shaman, 
his  feet  never  left  the  ground.  The  child  began  to  grow, 
as  though  the  work  of  years  was  miraculously  accom- 
plished in  a  few  seconds.     He  became  tall  and  large, 


76  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

and  his  senile  features  grew  older  with  the  ageing  of  his 
body.  A  few  more  seconds,  and  the  youthful  form  had 
entirely  disappeared.  It  was  totally  absorbed  in  another 
individuality,  and  to  the  horror  of  those  present  who  had 
been  familiar  with  his  appearance,  this  individuality  was 
that  of  old  Mr.  Izvertzoff,  and  on  his  temple  was  a  large 
gaping  wound,  from  which  trickled  great  drops  of  blood. 

This  phantom  moved  towards  Nicolas,  till  it  stood 
directly  in  front  of  him,  while  he,  with  his  hair  standing 
erect,  with  the  look  of  a  madman  gazed  at  his  own  son, 
transformed  into  his  uncle.  The  sepulchral  silence  was 
broken  by  the  Hungarian,  who,  addressing  the  child 
phantom,  asked  him  in  solemn  voice : 

"  In  the  name  of  the  great  Master,  of  him  who  has 
all  power,  answer  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 
Restless  spirit,  hast  thou  been  lost  by  accident,  or  foully 
murdered  ?" 

The  specter's  lips  moved,  but  it  was  the  echo  which 
answered  for  them  in  lugubrious  shouts :  "  Murdered ! 
murdered  !  !  mur-der-ed  !  !  ! " 

"Where?  How?  By  whom?"  asked  the  conjuror. 

The  apparition  pointed  a  finger  at  Nicolas  and,  with- 
out removing  its  gaze  or  lowering  its  arm,  retreated 
backwards  slowly  towards  the  lake.  At  every  step  it 
took,  the  younger  Izvertzoff,  as  if  compelled  by  some 
irresistible  fascination,  advanced  a  step  towards  it,  until 
the  phantom  reached  the  lake,  and  the  next  moment  was 
seen  gliding  on  its  surface.    It  was  a  fearful,  ghostly  scene! 

When  he  had  come  within  two  steps  of  the  brink  of 
the  watery  abyss,  a  violent  convulsion  ran  through  the 
frame  of  the  guilty  man.  Flinging  himself  upon  his 
knees,  he  clung  to  one  of  the  rustic  seats  with  a  desperate 
clutch,  and  staring  wildly,  uttered  a  long  piercing  cry  of 
agony,     The  phantom  now  remained  motionless  on  the 


THE   CAVE   OF   Tin:    ECHOES  77 

water,  and  bending  its  extended  finger,  slowly  beckoned 
him  to  come.  Crouched  in  abject  terror,  the  wretched 
man  shrieked  until  the  cavern  rang  again  and  again : 
"I  did  not     .     .     .     No,  I  did  not  murder  you  !" 

Then  came  a  splash,  and  now  it  was  the  boy  who  was 
in  the  dark  water,  struggling  for  his  life,  in  the  middle 
of  the  lake,  with  the  same  motionless  stern  apparition 
brooding  over  him. 

"Papa  !  papa  !  Save  me I  am  drowning!  " 

.  .  .  cried  a  piteous  little  voice  amid  the  uproar  of 
the  mocking  echoes. 

"My  boy!"  shrieked  Nicolas,  in  the  accents  of  a 
maniac,  springing  to  his  feet.  "My  boy!  Save  him! 
Oh,  save  him  !  .  .  .  Yes,  I  confess.  ...  I  am 
the  murderer.     .     .     .     It  is  I  who  killed  him  ! " 

Another  splash,  and  the  phantom  disappeared.  With 
a  cry  of  horror  the  company  rushed  towards  the  plat- 
form ;  but  their  feet  were  suddenly  rooted  to  the  ground, 
as  they  saw  amid  the  swirling  eddies  a  whitish  shapeless 
mass  holding  the  murderer  and  the  boy  in  tight  embrace, 
and  slowly  sinking  into  the  bottomless  lake. 

On  the  morning  after  these  occurrences,  when,  after  a 
sleepless  night,  some  of  the  party  visited  the  residence 
of  the  Hungarian  gentleman,  they  found  it  closed  and 
deserted.     He  and  the  Shaman  had  disappeared.     Many 

are  among  the  old  inhabitants  of  P who  remember 

him ;  the  Police  Inspector,  Col.  S ,  dying  a  few  years 

ago  in  the  full  assurance  that  the  noble  traveler  was  the 
devil.  To  add  to  the  general  consternation  the  Izvertzoff 
mansion  took  fire  on  that  same  night  and  was  com- 
pletely destroyed.  The  Archbishop  performed  the  cere- 
mony of  exorcism,  but  the  locality  is  considered  ac- 
cursed to  this  day.  The  Government  investigated  the 
facts,  and — ordered  silence. 


THE    LUMINOUS    SHIELD 


THE    LUMINOUS    SHIELD 


-•• 


w 


E  were  a  small  and  select  party  of 
light-hearted  travelers.  We  had 
arrived  at  Constantinople  a  week 
before  from  Greece,  and  had  devoted 
fourteen  hours  a  day  ever  since  to 
toiling  up  and  down  the  steep 
heights  of  Pera,  visiting  bazaars, 
^t\\  A  climbing   to   the   tops    of   minarets 

Mr^-Sh-,  and  fighting  our  way  through 
^'^S^MESL^  armies  of  hungry  dogs,  the  tradi- 
ppn*rf*_jj**^  tional  masters  of  the  streets  of 
Stamboul.  Nomadic  life  is  infec- 
tious, they  say,  and  no  civilization 
is  strong  enough  to  destroy  the 
charm  of  unrestrained  freedom  when  it  has  once  been 
tasted.  The  gipsy  cannot  be  tempted  from  his  tent,  and 
even  the  common  tramp  finds  a  fascination  in  his  com- 
fortless and  precarious  existence,  that  prevents  him 
taking  to  any  fixed  abode  and  occupation.  To  guard 
my  spaniel  Ralph  from  falling  a  victim  to  this  infection, 
and  joining  the  canine  Bedouins  that  infested  the  streets, 
was  my  chief  care  during  our  stay  in  Constantinople. 
He  was  a  fine  fellow,  my  constant  companion  and 
cherished  friend.  Afraid  of  losing  him,  I  kept  a  strict 
watch  over  his  movements  ;  for  the  first  three  days, 
however,  he  behaved  like  a  tolerably  well-educated 
quadruped,  and  remained  faithfully  at  my  heels.  At 
every    impudent   attack  from   his  Mahomedan   cousins, 


8  2  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

whether  intended  as  a  hostile  demonstration  or  an  over- 
ture of  friendship,  his  only  reply  would  be  to  draw  in  his 
tail  between  his  legs,  and  with  an  air  of  dignified 
modesty  seek  protection  under  the  wing  of  one  or  other 
of  our  party. 

As  he  had  thus  from  the  first  shown  so  decided  an 
aversion  to  bad  company,  I  began  to  feel  assured  of  his 
discretion,  and  by  the  end  of  the  third  day  I  had 
considerably  relaxed  my  vigilance.  This  carelessness  on 
my  part,  however,  was  soon  punished,  and  I  was  made 
to  regret  my  misplaced  confidence.  In  an  unguarded 
moment  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  some  four-footed 
syren,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  was  the  end  of  his 
bushy  tail,  vanishing  round  the  corner  of  a  dirty, 
winding  little  back  street. 

Greatly  annoyed,  I  passed  the  remainder  of  the  day  in 
a  vain  search  after  my  dumb  companion.  I  offered 
twenty,  thirty,  forty  francs  reward  for  him.  About  as 
many  vagabond  Maltese  began  a  regular  chase,  and 
towards  evening  we  were  invaded  in  our  hotel  by  the 
whole  troop,  every  man  of  them  with  a  more  or  less 
mangy  cur  in  his  arms,  which  he  tried  to  persuade  me 
was  my  lost  dog.  The  more  I  denied,  the  more  solemnly 
they  insisted,  one  of  them  actually  going  down  on  his 
knees,  snatching  from  his  bosom  an  old  corroded  metal 
image  of  the  Virgin,  and  swearing  a  solemn  oath  that  the 
Queen  of  Heaven  herself  had  kindly  appeared  to  him  to 
point  out  the  right  animal.  The  tumult  had  increased  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  looked  as  if  Ralph's  disappearance 
was  going  to  be  the  cause  of  a  small  riot,  and  finally  our 
landlord  had  to  send  for  a  couple  of  Kavasses  from  the 
nearest  police  station,  and  have  this  regiment  of  bipeds 
and  quadrupeds  expelled  by  main  force.  I  began  to  be 
convinced  that  I  should  never  see  my  dog  again,  and  I 


UNIVERS 

OF 
.CALIFOr 

LUMINOUS    SHIELD 


was  the  more  despondent  since  the  porter  of  the  hotel,  a 
semi-respectable  old  brigand,  who,  to  judge  by  appear- 
ances, had  not  passed  more  than  half-a-dozen  years  at 
the  galleys,  gravely  assured  me  that  all  my  pains  were 
useless,  as  my  spaniel  was  undoubtedly  dead  and 
devoured  too  by  this  time,  the  Turkish  dogs  being  very 
fond  of  their  more  toothsome  English  brothers. 

All  this  discussion  had  taken  place  in  the  street  at  the 
door  of  the  hotel,  and  I  was  about  to  give  up  the  search 
for  that  night  at  least,  and  enter  the  hotel,  when  an  old 
Greek  lady,  a  Phanariote  who  had  been  hearing  the 
fracas  from  the  steps  of  a  door  close  by,  approached  our 

disconsolate  group  and  suggested  to  Miss  H ,  one  of 

our  party,  that  we  should  inquire  of  the  dervishes 
concerning  the  fate  of  Ralph. 

"And  what  can  the  dervishes  know  about  my  dog?" 
said  I,  in  no  mood  to  joke,  ridiculous  as  the  proposition 
appeared. 

"The  holy  men  know  all,  Kyrea  (Madam),"  said  she 
somewhat  mysteriously.  "  Last  week  I  was  robbed  of 
my  new  satin  pelisse,  that  my  son  had  just  brought  me 
from  Broussa,  and,  as  you  all  see,  I  have  recovered  it 
and  have  it  on  my  back  now." 

"  Indeed  ?  Then  the  holy  men  have  also  managed  to 
metamorphose  your  new  pelisse  into  an  old  one  by  all 
appearances,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  accom- 
panied us,  pointing  as  he  spoke  to  a  large  rent  in  the 
back,  which  had  been  clumsily  repaired  with  pins. 

"  And  that  is  just  the  most  wonderful  part  of  the  whole 
story,"  quietly  answered  the  Phanariote,  not  in  the  least 
disconcerted.  "  They  showed  me  in  the  shining  circle 
the  quarter  of  the  town,  the  house,  and  even  the  room  in 
which  the  Jew  who  had  stolen  my  pelisse  was  just  about 
to  rip  it  up  and  cut  it  into  pieces.     My  son  and  I  had 


84  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

barely  time  to  run  over  to  the  Kalindjikoulosek  quarter, 
and  to  save  my  property.  We  caught  the  thief  in  the 
very  act,  and  we  both  recognized  him  as  the  man  shown 
to  us  by  the  dervishes  in  the  magic  moon.  He  confessed 
the  theft  and  is  now  in  prison." 

Although  none  of  us  had  the  least  comprehension  of 
what  she  meant  by  the  magic  moon  and  the  shining 
circle,  and  were  all  thoroughly  mystified  by  her  account 
of  the  divining  powers  of  the  "  holy  men,"  we  still  felt 
somehow  satisfied  from  her  manner  that  the  story  was 
not  altogether  a  fabrication,  and  since  she  had  at  all 
events  apparently  succeeded  in  recovering  her  property 
through  being  somehow  assisted  by  the  dervishes,  we 
determined  to  go  the  following  morning  and  see  for 
ourselves,  for  what  had  helped  her  might  help  us 
likewise. 

The  monotonous  cry  of  the  Muezzins  from  the  tops  of 
the  minarets  had  just  proclaimed  the  hour  of  noon  as 
we,  descending  from  the  heights  of  Pera  to  the  port  of 
Galata,  with  difficulty  managed  to  elbow  our  way  through 
the  unsavory  crowds  of  the  commercial  quarter  of  the 
town.  Before  we  reached  the  docks  we  had  been  half 
deafened  by  the  shouts  and  incessant  ear-piercing  cries 
and  the  Babel-like  confusion  of  tongues.  In  this  part  of 
the  city  it  is  useless  to  expect  to  be  guided  by  either 
house  numbers,  or  names  of  streets.  The  location  of 
any  desired  place  is  indicated  by  its  proximity  to  some 
other  more  conspicuous  building,  such  as  a  mosque,  bath 
or  European  shop  ;  for  the  rest,  one  has  to  trust  to  Allah 
and  his  prophet. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  therefore,  that  we 
finally  discovered  the  British  ship-chandler's  store,  at 
the  rear  of  which  we  were  to  find  the  place  of  our  destina- 
tion.    Our  hotel  guide  was  as  ignorant  of  the  dervishes' 


THE    LUMINOUS    SHIELD  85 

abode  as  we  were  ourselves;  but  at  last  a  small  Greek,  in 
all  the  simplicity  of  primitive  undress,  consented  for  a 
modest  copper  backsheesh  to  lead  us  to  the  dancers. 

When  we  arrived  we  were  shown  into  a  vast  and 
gloomy  hall  that  looked  like  a  deserted  stable.  It  was 
long  and  narrow,  the  floor  was  thickly  strewn  with  sand 
as  in  a  riding  school,  and  it  was  lighted  only  by  small 
windows  placed  at  some  height  from  the  ground.  The 
dervishes  had  finished  their  morning  performances,  and 
were  evidently  resting  from  their  exhausting  labors. 
They  looked  completely  prostrated,  some  lying  about  in 
corners,  others  sitting  on  their  heels  staring  vacantly 
into  space,  engaged,  as  we  were  informed,  in  meditation 
on  their  invisible  deity.  They  appeared  to  have  lost  all 
power  of  sight  and  hearing,  for  none  of  them  responded 
to  our  questions  until  a  great  gaunt  figure,  wearing  a  tall 
cap  that  made  him  look  at  least  seven  feet  high,  emerged 
from  an  obscure  corner.  Informing  us  that  he  was  their 
chief,  the  giant  gave  us  to  understand  that  the  saintly 
brethren,  being  in  the  habit  of  receiving  orders  for  addi- 
tional ceremonies  from  Allah  himself,  must  on  no  ac- 
count be  disturbed.  But  when  our  interpreter  had 
explained  to  him  the  object  of  our  visit,  which  con- 
cerned himself  alone,  as  he  was  the  sole  custodian  of  the 
"divining  rod,"  his  objections  vanished  and  he  extended 
his  hand  for  alms.  Upon  being  gratified,  he  intimated 
that  only  two  of  our  party  could  be  admitted  at  one 
time  into  the  confidence  of  the  future,  and  led  the  way, 
followed  by  Miss  H and  myself. 

Plunging  after  him  into  what  seemed  to  be  a  half 
subterranean  passage,  we  were  led  to  the  foot  of  a  tall 
ladder  leading  to  a  chamber  under  the  roof.  We 
scrambled  up  after  our  guide,  and  at  the  top  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  wretched  garret  of   moderate  size,  with 


86  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

bare  walls  and  destitute  of  furniture.  The  floor  was 
carpeted  with  a  thick  layer  of  dust,  and  cobwebs  festooned 
the  walls  in  neglected  confusion.  In  the  corner  we  saw 
something  that  I  at  first  mistook  for  a  bundle  of  old  rags; 
but  the  heap  presently  moved  and  got  on  its  legs,  ad- 
vanced to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood  before  us,  the 
most  extraordinary  looking  creature  that  I  ever  beheld. 
Its  sex  was  female,  but  whether  she  was  a  woman  or 
child  it  was  impossible  to  decide.  She  was  a  hideous- 
looking  dwarf,  with  an  enormous  head,  the  shoulders  of 
a  grenadier,  with  a  waist  in  proportion ;  the  whole 
supported  by  two  short,  lean,  spider-like  legs  that  seemed 
unequal  to  the  task  of  bearing  the  weight  of  the  monstrous 
body.  She  had  a  grinning  countenance  like  the  face  of  a 
satyr,  and  it  was  ornamented  with  letters  and  signs  from 
the  Koran  painted  in  bright  yellow.  On  her  forehead 
was  a  blood-red  crescent ;  her  head  was  crowned  with  a 
dusty  tarbouche,  or  fez  ;  her  legs  were  arrayed  in  large 
Turkish  trousers,  and  some  dirty  white  muslin  wrapped 
round  her  body  barely  sufficed  to  conceal  its  hideous 
deformities.  This  creature  rather  let  herself  drop  than 
sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  as  her  weight 
descended  on  the  rickety  boards  it  sent  up  a  cloud  of 
dust  that  set  us  coughing  and  sneezing.  This  was  the 
famous  Tatmos  known  as  the  Damascus  oracle  ! 

Without  losing  time  in  idle  talk,  the  dervish  produced 
a  piece  of  chalk,  and  traced  around  the  girl  a  circle 
about  six  feet  in  diameter.  Fetching  from  behind  the 
door  twelve  small  copper  lamps  which  he  filled  with 
some  dark  liquid  from  a  small  bottle  which  he  drew 
from  his  bosom,  he  placed  them  symmetrically  around 
the  magic  circle.  He  then  broke  a  chip  of  wood  from  a 
panel  of  the  half  ruined  door,  which  bore  the  marks  of 
many    a    similar    depredation,    and,    holding    the    chip 


THE    LUMINOUS   SHIELD  87 

between  his  thumb  and  linger  he  began  blowing  on  it  at 
regular  intervals,  alternating  the  blowing  with  mutter- 
ings  of  some  kind  of  weird  incantation,  till  suddenly, 
and  without  any  apparent  cause  for  its  ignition,  there 
appeared  a  spark  on  the  chip  and  it  blazed  up  like  a  dry 
match.  The  dervish  then  lit  the  twelve  lamps  at  this 
self-generated  flame. 

During  this  process,  Tatmos,  who  had  sat  till  then 
altogether  unconcerned  and  motionless,  removed  her 
yellow  slippers  from  her  naked  feet,  and  throwing  them 
into  a  corner,  disclosed  as  an  additional  beauty,  a  sixth  toe 
on  each  deformed  foot.  The  dervish  now  reached  over 
into  the  circle  and  seizing  the  dwarf's  ankles  gave  her  a 
jerk,  as  if  he  had  been  lifting  a  bag  of  corn,  and  raised 
her  clear  off  the  ground,  then,  stepping  back  a  pace,  held 
her  head  downward.  He  shook  her  as  one  might  a  sack 
to  pack  its  contents,  the  motion  being  regular  and  easy. 
He  then  swung  her  to  and  fro  like  a  pendulum  until  the 
necessary  momentum  was  acquired,  when  letting  go  one 
foot,  and  seizing  the  other  with  both  hands,  he  made  a 
powerful  muscular  effort  and  whirled  her  round  in  the 
air  as  if  she  had  been  an  Indian  club. 

My  companion  had  shrunk  back  in  alarm  to  the 
farthest  corner.  Round  and  round  the  dervish  swung 
his  living  burden,  she  remaining  perfectly  passive.  The 
motion  increased  in  rapidity  until  the  eye  could  hardly 
follow  the  body  in  its  circuit.  This  continued  for  per- 
haps two  or  three  minutes,  until,  gradually  slackening 
the  motion,  he  at  length  stopped  it  altogether,  and  in  an 
instant  had  landed  the  girl  on  her  knees  in  the  middle 
of  the  lamp-lit  circle.  Such  was  the  Eastern  mode  of 
mesmerization  as  practised  among  the  dervishes. 

And  now  the  dwarf  seemed  entirely  oblivious  of  ex- 
ternal objects  and  in  a  deep  trance.     Her  head  and  jaw 


88  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

dropped  on  her  chest,  her  eyes  were  glazed  and  staring, 
and  altogether  her  appearance  was  even  more  hideous 
than  before.  The  dervish  then  carefully  closed  the 
shutters  of  the  only  window,  and  we  should  have  been 
in  total  obscurity,  but  that  there  was  a  hole  bored  in  it, 
through  which  entered  a  bright  ray  of  sunlight  that  shot 
through  the  darkened  room  and  shone  upon  the  girl. 
He  arranged  her  drooping  head  so  that  the  ray  should 
fall  upon  the  crown,  after  which  motioning  us  to  remain 
silent,  he  folded  his  arms  upon  his  bosom,  and,  fixing  his 
gaze  upon  the  bright  spot,  became  as  motionless  as  a 
stone  image.  I,  too,  riveted  my  eyes  on  the  same  spot, 
wondering  what  was  to  happen  next,  and  how  all  this 
strange  ceremony  was  to  help  me  to  find  Ralph. 

By  degrees,  the  bright  patch,  as  if  it  had  drawn 
through  the  sunbeam  a  greater  splendor  from  without 
and  condensed  it  within  its  own  area,  shaped  itself  into 
a  brilliant  star,  sending  out  rays  in  every  direction  as 
from  a  focus. 

A  curious  optical  effect  then  occurred:  the  room,  which 
had  been  previously  partially  lighted  by  the  sunbeam, 
grew  darker  and  darker  as  the  star  increased  in  radiance, 
until  we  found  ourselves  in  an  Egyptian  gloom.  The 
star  twinkled,  trembled  and  turned,  at  first  with  a  slow 
gyratory  motion,  then  faster  and  faster,  increasing  its 
circumference  at  every  rotation  until  it  formed  a  brilliant 
disk,  and  we  no  longer  saw  the  dwarf,  who  seemed 
absorbed  into  its  light.  Having  gradually  attained  an 
extremely  rapid  velocity,  as  the  girl  had  done  when 
whirled  by  the  dervish,  the  motion  began  to  decrease 
and  finally  merged  into  a  feeble  vibration,  like  the 
shimmer  of  moonbeams  on  rippling  water.  Then  it 
flickered  for  a  moment  longer,  emitted  a  few  last  flashes, 
and  assuming  the  density  and  iridescence  of  an  immense 


THK    LUMINOUS   SHIELD  89 

opal,  it  remained  motionless.  The  disk  now  radiated  a 
moon-like  luster,  soft  and  silvery,  but  instead  of  illumin- 
ating the  garret,  it  seemed  only  to  intensify  the  darkness. 
The  edge  of  the  circle  was  not  penumbrous,  but  on  the 
contrary  sharply  defined  like  that  of  a  silver  shield. 

All  being  now  ready,  the  dervish  without  uttering  a 
word,  or  removing  his  gaze  from  the  disk,  stretched  out 
a  hand,  and  taking  hold  of  mine,  he  drew  me  to  his  side 
and  pointed  to  the  luminous  shield.  Looking  at  the 
place  indicated,  we  saw  large  patches  appear  like  those 
on  the  moon.  These  gradually  formed  themselves  into 
figures  that  began  moving  about  in  high  relief  in  their 
natural  colors.  They  neither  appeared  like  a  photo- 
graph nor  an  engraving  ;  still  less  like  the  reflection  of 
images  on  a  mirror,  but  as  if  the  disk  were  a  cameo,  and 
they  were  raised  above  its  surface  and  then  endowed  with 
life  and  motion.  To  my  astonishment  and  my  friend's 
consternation,  we  recognized  the  bridge  leading  from 
Galata  to  Stamboul  spanning  the  Golden  Horn  from  the 
new  to  the  old  city.  There  were  the  people  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  steamers  and  gay  caiques  gliding  on  the  blue 
Bosphorus,  the  many  colored  buildings,  villas  and 
palaces  reflected  in  the  water  ;  and  the  whole  picture 
illuminated  by  the  noon-day  sun.  It  passed  like  a 
panorama,  but  so  vivid  was  the  impression  that  we  could 
not  tell  whether  it  or  ourselves  were  in  motion.  All  was 
bustle  and  life,  but  not  a  sound  broke  the  oppressive 
stillness.  It  was  noiseless  as  a  dream.  It  was  a  phantom 
picture.  Street  after  street  and  quarter  after  quarter 
succeeded  one  another ;  there  was  the  bazaar,  with  its 
narrow,  roofed  passages,  the  small  shops  on  either  side, 
the  coffee  houses  with  gravely  smoking  Turks ;  and  as 
either  they  glided  past  us  or  we  past  them,  one  of  the 
smokers  upset  the  narghile  and  coffee  of  another,  and  a 


g 


90  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

volley  of  soundless  invectives  caused  us  great  amusement. 
So  we  traveled  with  the  picture  until  we  came  to  a  large 
building  that  I  recognized  as  the  palace  of  the  Minister 
of  Finance.  In  a  ditch  behind  the  house,  and  close  to  a 
mosque,  lying  in  a  pool  of  mud  with  his  silken  coat  all 
bedraggled,  lay  my  poor  Ralph  !  Panting  and  crouching 
down  as  if  exhausted,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  dying  condi- 
tion ;  and  near  him  were  gathered  some  sorry-looking 
curs  who  lay  blinking  in  the  sun  and  snapping  at  the 
flies! 

I  had  seen  all  that  I  desired,  although  I  had  not 
breathed  a  word  about  the  dog  to  the  dervish,  and  had 
come  more  out  of  curiosity  than  with  the  idea  of  any 
success.  I  was  impatient  to  leave  at  once  and  recover 
Ralph,  but  as  my  companion  besought  me  to  remain  a 
little  while  longer,  I  reluctantly  consented.     The  scene 

faded  away  and  Miss  H placed  herself  in  turn  by 

the  side  of  the  dervish. 

" I  will  think  of  him,"  she  whispered  in  my  ear  with 
the  eager  tone  that  young  ladies  generally  assume  when 
talking  of  the  worshipped  him. 

There  is  a  long  stretch  of  sand  and  a  blue  sea  with 
white  waves  dancing  in  the  sun,  and  a  great  steamer  is 
ploughing  her  way  along  past  a  desolate  shore,  leaving 
a  milky  track  behind  her.  The  deck  is  full  of  life,  the 
men  are  busy  forward,  the  cook  with  white  cap  and 
apron  is  coming  out  of  the  galley,  uniformed  officers  are 
moving  about,  passengers  fill  the  quarter-deck,  lounging, 
flirting  or  reading,  and  a  young  man  we  both  recognize 
comes  forward  and  leans  over  the  taffrail.     It  is  —  him. 

Miss  H gives  a  little   gasp,   blushes  and  smiles, 

and  concentrates  her  thoughts  again.  The  picture  of 
the  steamer  vanishes  ;  the  magic  moon  remains  for  a  few 
moments  blank.     But  new  spots  appear  on  its  luminous 


THE    LUMINOUS   SHIELD  9 1 

face,  we  see  a  library  slowly  emerging  from  its  depths — a 
library  with  green  carpet  and  hangings,  and  book-shelves 
round  the  sides  of  the  room.  Seated  in  an  arm-chair 
at  a  table  under  a  hanging  lamp,  is  an  old  gentleman 
writing.  His  gray  hair  is  brushed  back  from  his  forehead, 
his  face  is  smooth-shaven  and  his  countenance  has  an 
expression  of  benignity. 

The  dervish  made  an  hasty  motion  to  enjoin  silence  ; 
the  light  on  the  disk  quivers,  but  resumes  its  steady 
brilliancy,  and  again  its  surface  is  imageless  for  a  second. 

We  are  back  in  Constantinople  now  and  out  of  the 
pearly  depths  of  the  shield  forms  our  own  apartment  in 
the  hotel.  There  are  our  papers  and  books  on  the 
bureau,  my  friend's  traveling  hat  in  a  corner,  her 
ribbons  hanging  on  the  glass,  and  lying  on  the  bed  the 
very  dress  she  had  changed  when  starting  out  on  our 
expedition.  No  detail  was  lacking  to  make  the  identifi- 
cation complete  ;  and  as  if  to  prove  that  we  were  not 
seeing  something  conjured  up  in  our  own  imagination, 
there  lay  upon  the  dressing-table  two  unopened  letters, 
the  handwriting  on  which  was  elearly  recognized  by  my 
friend.  They  were  from  a  very  dear  relative  of  hers, 
from  whom  she  had  expected  to  hear  when  in  Athens, 
but  had  been  disappointed.  The  scene  faded  away  and 
we  now  saw  her  brother's  room  with  himself  lying  upon 
the  lounge,  and  a  servant  bathing  his  head,  whence,  to 
our  horror,  blood  was  trickling.  We  had  left  the  boy  in 
perfect  health  but  an  hour  before ;  and  upon  seeing  this 
picture  my  companion  .uttered  a  cry  of  alarm,  and 
seizing  me  by  the  hand  dragged  me  to  the  door.  We  re- 
joined our  guide  and  friends  in  the  long  hall  and  hurried 
back  to  the  hotel. 

Young  H had  fallen  downstairs  and  cut  his  fore- 
head rather  badly  ;  in  our  room,  on  the  dressing-table 


92  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

were  the  two  letters  which  had  arrived  in  our  absence. 
They  had  been  forwarded  from  Athens.  Ordering  a 
carriage,  I  at  once  drove  to  the  Ministry  of  Finance,  and 
alighting  with  the  guide,  hurriedly  made  for  the  ditch  I 
had  seen  for  the  first  time  in  the  shining  disk  !  In  the 
middle  of  the  pool,  badly  mangled,  half-famished,  but 
still  alive,  lay  my  beautiful  spaniel  Ralph,  and  near 
him  were  the  blinking  curs,  unconcernedly  snapping 
at  the  flies. 


FROM  THE  POLAR  LANDS 


FROM  THE  POLAR  LANDS 

(A  Christmas  Story) 

IJST  a  year  ago,  during  the  Christmas 
holidays,    a     numerous    society    had 
gathered    in    the    country    house,    or 
rather  the  old  hereditary  castle,  of  a 
wealthy  landowner  in  Finland.    Many 
were  the  remains  in  it  of   our   fore- 
fathers' hospitable  way  of  living ;  and 
many     the     medieval     customs    pre- 
served,   founded    on    traditions    and 
superstitions,  semi-Finnish  and  semi- 
Russian,  the  latter  imported  into  it  by 
its  female  proprietors  from  the  shores 
of   the    Neva.     Christmas   trees    were 
being   prepared    and    implements    for 
divination  were  being  made    ready.     For,    in    that   old 
castle  there  were  grim  worm-eaten  portraits  of  famous 
ancestors  and  knights  and   ladies,  old  deserted  turrets, 
with  bastions  and  Gothic  windows  ;  mysterious  somber 
alleys,  and  dark  and  endless  cellars,  easily  transformed 
into  subterranean  passages   and    caves,    ghostly    prison 
cells,  haunted  by  the  restless  phantoms  of  the  heroes  of 
local  legends.     In  short,   the  old   Manor  offered  every 
commodity  for  romantic  horrors.     But  alas  !   this  once 
they  serve  for  nought;  in  the  present  narrative  these  dear 
old  horrors  play  no  such  part  as  they  otherwise  might. 

Its  chief  hero  is  a  very  commonplace,  prosaical  man 
— let  us  call  him  Erkler.     Yes  ;  Dr.  Erkler,  professor  of 


96  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

medicine,  half-German  through  his  father,  a  full-blown 
Russian  on  his  mother's  side  and  by  education  ;  and  one 
who  looked  a  rather  heavily  built,  and  ordinary  mortal. 
Nevertheless,  very  extraordinary  things  happened  with 
him. 

Erkler,  as  it  turned  out  was  a  great  traveler,  who  by 
his  own  choice  had  accompanied  one  of  the  most  famous 
explorers  on  his  journeys  round  the  world.  More  than 
once  they  had  both  seen  death  face  to  face  from  sun- 
strokes under  the  Tropics,  from  cold  in  the  Polar 
Regions.  All  this  notwithstanding,  the  doctor  spoke 
with  a  never-abating  enthusiasm  about  their  "  winter- 
ings" in  Greenland  and  Novaya  Zemla,  and  about  the 
desert  plains  in  Australia,  where  he  lunched  off  a  kan- 
garoo and  dined  off  an  emu,  and  almost  perished  of  thirst 
during  the  passage  through  a  waterless  track,  which  it 
took  them  forty  hours  to  cross. 

"  Yes,"  he  used  to  remark,  "I  have  experienced  almost 
everything,  save  what  you  would  describe  as  supernatural. 
.  .  .  This,  of  course  if  we  throw  out  of  account  a  cer- 
tain extraordinary  event  in  my  life  —  a  man  I  met,  of 
whom  I  will  tell  you  just  now — and  its  .  .  .  indeed, 
rather  strange,  I  may  add  quite  inexplicable,  results." 

There  was  a  loud  demand  that  he  should  explain 
himself ;  and  the  doctor,  forced  to  yield,  began  his 
narrative. 

"In  1878  we  were  compelled  to  winter  on  the  north- 
western coast  of  Spitsbergen.  We  had  been  attempting 
to  find  our  way  during  the  short  summer  to  the  pole ; 
but,  as  usual,  the  attempt  had  proved  a  failure,  owing  to 
the  icebergs,  and,  after  several  such  fruitless  endeavors, 
we  had  to  give  it  up.  No  sooner  had  we  settled  than  the 
polar  night  descended  upon  us,  our  steamers  got  wedged 
in  and  frozen  between  the  blocks  of  ice  in  the  Gulf  of 


FROM   THE    POLAB    LANDS  97 

Mussel,  and  we  found  ourselves  cut  off  for  eight  long 

months  from  the  rest  of  the  living  world I 

confess  I,  for  one,  felt  it  terribly  at  first.  We  became 
especially  discouraged  when  one  stormy  night  the  snow 
hurricane  scattered  a  mass  of  materials  prepared  for  our 
winter  buildings,  and  deprived  us  of  over  forty  deer  from 
our  herd.  Starvation  in  prospect  is  no  incentive  to  good 
humor  ;  and  with  the  deer  we  had  lost  the  best  plat  de 
resistance  against  polar  frosts,  human  organisms  demand- 
ing in  that  climate  an  increase  of  heating  and  solid  food. 
However,  we  were  finally  reconciled  to  our  loss,  and 
even  got  accustomed  to  the  local  and  in  reality  more 
nutritious  food — seals,  and  seal-grease.  Our  men  from 
the  remnants  of  our  lumber  built  a  house  neatly  divided 
into  two  compartments,  one  for  our  three  professors  and 
myself,  and  the  other  for  themselves ;  and,  a  few  wooden 
sheds  being  constructed  for  meteorological,  astronomical 
and  magnetic  purposes,  we  even  added  a  protecting 
stable  for  the  few  remaining  deer.  And  then  began  the 
monotonous  series  of  dawnless  nights  and  days,  hardly 
distinguishable  one  from  the  other,  except  through  dark- 
gray  shadows.  At  times,  the  "  blues  "  we  got  into  were 
fearful  !  We  had  contemplated  sending  two  of  our  three 
steamers  home  in  September,  but  the  premature  and  un- 
forseen  formation  of  ice  walls  round  them  had  thwarted 
our  plans ;  and  now,  with  the  entire  crews  on  our  hands, 
we  had  to  economize  still  more  with  our  meager  pro- 
visions, fuel  and  light.  Lamps  were  used  only  for 
scientific  purposes  :  the  rest  of  the  time  we  had  to 
content  ourselves  with  God's  light — the  moon  and  the 
Aurora  Borealis.  .  .  .  But  how  describe  these  glorious, 
incomparable  northern  lights!  Rings,  arrows,  gigantic 
conflagrations  of  accurately  divided  rays  of  the  most 
vivid  and  varied  colors.    The  November  moonlight  nights 


go  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

were  as  gorgeous.  The  play  of  moonbeams  on  the  snow 
and  the  frozen  rocks  was  most  striking.  These  were 
fairy  nights. 

"Well,  one  such  night  —  it  may  have  been  one  such 
day,  for  all  I  know,  as  from  the  end  of  November  to 
about  the  middle  of  March  we  had  no  twilights  at  all,  to 
distinguish  the  one  from  the  other — we  suddenly  espied 
in  the  play  of  colored  beams,  which  were  then  throwing 
a  golden  rosy  hue  on  the  snow  plains,  a  dark  moving 
spot.  ...  It  grew,  and  seemed  to  scatter  as  it  ap- 
proached nearer  to  us.  What  did  this  mean  ?  ...  It 
looked  like  a  herd  of  cattle,  or  a  group  of  living  men, 
trotting  over  the  snowy  wilderness.  .  .  .  But  animals 
there  were  white  like  ever\Tthing  else.  What  then  was 
this  ?     .     .     .     human  beings  ?     .     .     . 

"We  could  not  believe  our  eyes.  Yes,  a  group  of  men 
was  approaching  our  dwelling.  It  turned  out  to  be 
about  fifty  seal-hunters,  guided  by  Matiliss,  a  well-known 
veteran  mariner,  from  Norway.  They  had  been  caught 
by  the  icebergs,  just  as  we  had  been. 

"  '  How  did  you  know  that  we  were  here  ? '  we  asked. 

"  'Old  Johan,  this  very  same  old  party,  showed  us  the 
way' — they  answered,  pointing  to  a  venerable-looking 
old  man  with  snow-white  locks. 

"  In  sober  truth,  it  would  have  beseemed  their  guide 
far  better  to  have  sat  at  home  over  his  fire  than  to  have 
been  seal-hunting  in  polar  lands  with  younger  men. 
And  we  told  them  so,  still  wondering  how  he  came  to 
learn  of  our  presence  in  this  kingdom  of  white  bears. 
At  this  Matiliss  and  his  companions  smiled,  assuring  us 
that  ""old  Johan'  knew  all.  They  remarked  that  we  must 
be  novices  in  polar  borderlands,  since  we  were  ignorant 
of  Johan's  personality  and  could  still  wonder  at  anything 
said  of  him. 


FROM  THE  POLAR  LANDS  99 

"  'It  is  nigh  forty-five  years,'  said  the  chief  hunter, 
'  that  I  have  been  catching  seals  in  the  Polar  Seas,  and 
as  far  as  my  personal  remembrance  goes,  I  have  always 
known  him,  and  just  as  he  is  now,  an  old,  white-bearded 
man.  And  so  far  back  as  in  the  days  when  I  used  to  go 
to  sea,  as  a  small  boy  with  my  father,  my  dad  used  to 
tell  me  the  same  of  old  Johan,  and  he  added  that  his 
own  father  and  grandfather  too,  had  known  Johan  in 
their  days  of  boyhood,  none  of  them  having  ever  seen 
him  otherwise  than  white  as  our  snows.  And,  as  our  fore- 
fathers nicknamed  him  "  the  white-haired  all-knower," 
thus  do  we,  the  seal  hunters,  call  him,  to  this  day.' 

"  'Would  you  make  us  believe  he  is  two  hundred  years 
old  ? ' — we  laughed. 

"Some  of  our  sailors  crowding  round  the  white-haired 
phenomenon,  plied  him  with  questions. 

"  '  Grandfather  !  answer  us,  how  old  are  you  ?' 

"  '  I  really  do  not  know  it  myself,  sonnies.  I  live  as 
long  as  God  has  decreed  me  to.  As  to  my  years,  I  never 
counted  them.' 

"  '  And  how  did  you  know,  grandfather,  that  we  were 
wintering  in  this  place  ? ' 

"  '  God  guided  me.  How  I  learned  it  I  do  not  know  ; 
save  that  I  knew — I  knew  it.'  " 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN 


N  the  year  1828,  an  old  German,  a 
music  teacher,  came  to  Paris  with 
his  pupil  and  settled  unostenta- 
tiously in  one  of  the  quiet  faubourgs 
of  the  metropolis.  The  first  rejoiced 
in  the  name  of  Samuel  Klaus  ;  the 
second  answered  to  the  more  poeti- 
cal appellation  of  Franz  Stenio. 
The  younger  man  was  a  violinist, 
gifted,  as  rumor  went,  with  extra- 
ordinary, almost  miraculous  talent. 
Yet  as  he  was  poor  and  had  not 
hitherto  made  a  name  for  himself  in 
Europe,  he  remained  for  several 
years  in  the  capital  of  France  —  the  heart  and  pulse  of 
capricious  continental  fashion — unknown  and  unappre- 
ciated. Franz  was  a  Styrian  by  birth,  and,  at  the  time 
of  the  event  to  be  presently  described,  he  was  a  young 
man  considerably  under  thirty.  A  philosopher  and  a 
dreamer  by  nature,  imbued  with  all  the  mystic  oddities 
of  true  genius,  he  reminded  one  of  some  of  the  heroes  in 
Hoffmann's  Conies  Fantastiques.  His  earlier  existence 
had  been  a  very  unusual,  in  fact,  quite  an  eccentric  one, 
and  its  history  must  be  briefly  told  —  for  the  better 
understanding  of  the  present  story. 

Born  of   very  pious  country  people,  in  a  quiet   burg 


104  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

among  the  Styrian  Alps ;  nursed  "  by  the  native  gnomes 
who  watched  over  his  cradle";  growing  up  in  the  weird 
atmosphere  of  the  ghouls  and  vampires  who  play  such  a 
prominent  part  in  the  household  of  every  Styrian  and 
Slavonian  in  Southern  Austria  ;  educated  later,  as  a 
student,  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  Rhenish  castles  of 
Germany;  Franz  from  his  childhood  had  passed  through 
every  emotional  stage  on  the  plane  of  the  so-called 
"  supernatural."  He  had  also  studied  at  one  time  the 
"  occult  arts  "  with  an  enthusiastic  disciple  of  Paracelsus 
and  Kunrath ;  alchemy  had  few  theoretical  secrets  for 
him;  and  he  had  dabbled  in  "  ceremonial  magic"  and 
"  sorcery "  with  some  Hungarian  Tziganes.  Yet  he 
loved  above  all  else  music,  and  above  music — his  violin. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-two  he  suddenly  gave  up  his 
practical  studies  in  the  occult,  and  from  that  day, 
though  as  devoted  as  ever  in  thought  to  the  beautiful 
Grecian  Gods,  he  surrendered  himself  entirely  to  his  art. 
Of  his  classic  studies  he  had  retained  only  that  which 
related  to  the  muses  —  Euterpe  especially,  at  whose  altar 
he  worshipped — and  Orpheus  whose  magic  lyre  he  tried 
to  emulate  with  his  violin.  Except  his  dreamy  belief  in 
the  nymphs  and  the  sirens,  on  account  probably  of  the 
double  relationship  of  the  latter  to  the  muses  through 
Calliope  and  Orpheus,  he  was  interested  but  little  in  the 
matters  of  this  sublunary  world.  All  his  aspirations 
mounted,  like  incense,  with  the  wave  of  the  heavenly 
harmony  that  he  drew  from  his  instrument,  to  a  higher 
and  a  nobler  sphere.  He  dreamed  awake,  and  lived  a 
real  though  an  enchanted  life  only  during  those  hours 
when  his  magic  bow  carried  him  along  the  wave  of  sound 
to  the  Pagan  Olympus,  to  the  feet  of  Euterpe.  A  strange 
child  he  had  ever  been  in  his  own  home,  where  tales  of 
magic  and  witchcraft  grow  out  of  every  inch  of  the  soil; 


THE   ENSOULED   VIOLIN  105 

a  still  stranger  boy  he  had  become,  until  finally  he  had 
blossomed  into  manhood,  without  one  single  character- 
istic of  youth.  Never  had  a  fair  face  attracted  his 
attention  ;  not  for  one  moment  had  his  thoughts  turned 
from  his  solitary  studies  to  a  life  beyond  that  of  a  mystic 
Bohemian.  Content  with  his  own  company,  he  had 
thus  passed  the  best  years  of  his  youth  and  manhood 
with  his  violin  for  his  chief  idol,  and  with  the  Gods  and 
Goddesses  of  old  Greece  for  his  audience,  in  perfect 
ignorance  of  practical  life.  His  whole  existence  had 
been  one  long  day  of  dreams,  of  melody  and  sunlight, 
and  he  had  never  felt  any  other  aspirations. 

How  useless,  but  oh,  how  glorious  those  dreams  !  how 
vivid  !  and  why  should  he  desire  any  better  fate  ?  Was 
he  not  all  that  he  wanted  to  be,  transformed  in  a  second 
of  thought  into  one  or  another  hero ;  from  Orpheus,  who 
held  all  nature  breathless,  to  the  urchin  who  piped  away 
under  the  plane  tree  to  the  naiads  of  Callirrhoe's  crystal 
fountain?  Did  not  the  swift-footed  nymphs  frolic  at 
his  bock  and  call  to  the  sound  of  the  magic  flute  of  the 
Arcadian  Shepherd — who  was  himself?  Behold,  the 
Goddess  of  Love  and  Beauty  herself  descending  from  on 
high,  attracted  by  the  sweet-voiced  notes  of  his  violin  ! 
.  .  .  Yet  there  came  a  time  when  he  preferred  Syrinx 
to  Aphrodite  —  not  as  the  fair  nymph  pursued  by  Pan, 
but  after  her  transformation  by  the  merciful  Gods  into 
the  reed  out  of  which  the  frustrated  God  of  the  Shepherds 
had  made  his  magic  pipe.  For  also,  with  time,  ambition 
grows  and  is  rarely  satisfied.  When  he  tried  to  emulate 
on  his  violin  the  enchanting  sounds  that  resounded  in 
his  mind,  the  whole  of  Parnassus  kept  silent  under  the 
spell,  or  joined  in  heavenly  chorus ;  but  the  audience  he 
finally  craved  was  composed  of  more  than  the  Gods  sung 
by  Hesiod,  verily  of  the  most  appreciative  melomanes  of 

h 


Io6  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

European  capitals.  He  felt  jealous  of  the  magic  pipe, 
and  would  fain  have  had  it  at  his  command. 

"Oh,  that  I  could  allure  a  nymph  into  my  beloved 
violin!" — he  often  cried,  after  awakening  from  one  of  his 
day-dreams.  "  Oh,  that  I  could  only  span  in  spirit  flight 
the  abyss  of  Time !  Oh,  that  I  could  find  myself  for  one 
short  day  a  partaker  of  the  secret  arts  of  the  Gods,  a  God 
myself,  in  the  sight  and  hearing  of  enraptured  humanity; 
and,  having  learned  the  mystery  of  the  lyre  of  Orpheus, 
or  secured  within  my  violin  a  siren,  thereby  benefit 
mortals  to  my  own  glory  ! " 

Thus,  having  for  long  years  dreamed  in  the  company 
of  the  Gods  of  his  fancy,  he  now  took  to  dreaming  of 
the  transitory  glories  of  fame  upon  this  earth.  But  at 
this  time  he  was  suddenly  called  home  by  his  widowed 
mother  from  one  of  the  German  universities  where  he 
had  lived  for  the  last  year  or  two.  This  was  an  event 
which  brought  his  plans  to  an  end,  at  least  so  far  as  the 
immediate  future  was  concerned,  for  he  had  hitherto 
drawn  upon  her  alone  for  his  meager  pittance,  and  his 
means  were  not  sufficient  for  an  independent  life  outside 
his  native  place. 

His  return  had  a  very  unexpected  result.  His  mother, 
whose  only  love  he  was  on  earth,  died  soon  after  she  had 
welcomed  her  Benjamin  back;  and  the  good  wives  of  the 
burg  exercised  their  swift  tongues  for  many  a  month 
after  as  to  the  real  causes  of  that  death. 

Frau  Stenio,  before  Franz's  return,  was  a  health}', 
buxom,  middle-aged  body,  strong  and  hearty.  She  was 
a  pious  and  a  God-fearing  soul  too,  who  had  never 
failed  in  saying  her  prayers,  nor  had  missed  an  early 
mass  for  years  during  his  absence.  On  the  first  Sunday 
after  her  son  had  settled  at  home — a  day  that  she  had 
been   longing  for  and   had   anticipated    for    months    in 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  1 07 

joyous  visions,  in  which  she  saw  him  kneeling  by  her 
side  in  the  little  church  on  the  hill  —  she  called  him  from 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  hour  had  come  when  her 
pious  dream  was  to  be  realized,  and  she  was  waiting  for 
him,  carefully  wiping  the  dust  from  the  prayer-book  he 
had  used  in  his  boyhood.  But  instead  of  Franz,  it  was 
his  violin  that  responded  to  her  call,  mixing  its  sonorous 
voice  with  the  rather  cracked  tones  of  the  peal  of  the 
merry  Sunday  bells.  The  fond  mother  was  somewhat 
shocked  at  hearing  the  prayer-inspiring  sounds  drowned 
by  the  weird,  fantastic  notes  of  the  "  Dance  of  the 
Witches";  they  seemed  to  her  so  unearthly  and  mock- 
ing. But  she  almost  fainted  upon  hearing  the  definite 
refusal  of  her  well-beloved  son  to  go  to  church.  He 
never  went  to  church,  he  coolly  remarked.  It  was  loss 
of  time  ;  besides  which,  the  loud  peals  of  the  old  church 
organ  jarred  on  his  nerves.  Nothing  should  induce  him 
to  submit  to  the  torture  of  listening  to  that  cracked 
organ.  He  was  firm  and  nothing  could  move  him.  To 
her  supplications  and  remonstrances  he  put  an  end  by 
offering  to  play  for  her  a  "  Hymn  to  the  Sun  "  he  had 
just  composed. 

From  that  memorable  Sunday  morning,  Frau  Stenio 
lost  her  usual  serenity  of  mind.  She  hastened  to  lay 
her  sorrows  and  seek  for  consolation  at  the  foot  of  the 
confessional ;  but  that  which  she  heard  in  response  from 
the  stern  priest  filled  her  gentle  and  unsophisticated 
soul  with  dismay  and  almost  with  despair.  A  feeling  of 
fear,  a  sense  of  profound  terror,  which  soon  became  a 
chronic  state  with  her,  pursued  her  from  that  moment; 
her  nights  became  disturbed  and  sleepless,  her  days 
passed  in  prayer  and  lamentations.  In  her  maternal 
anxiety  for  the  salvation  of  her  beloved  son's  soul,  and 
for  his  post  mortem  welfare,  she  made  a  series  of  rash 


108  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

vows.  Finding  that  neither  the  Latin  petition  to  the 
Mother  of  God  written  for  her  by  her  spiritual  adviser, 
nor  yet  the  humble  supplications  in  German,  addressed 
by  herself  to  every  saint  she  had  reason  to  believe  was 
residing  in  Paradise,  worked  the  desired  effect,  she  took 
to  pilgrimages  to  distant  shrines.  During  one  of  these 
journeys  to  a  holy  chapel  situated  high  up  in  the  moun- 
tains, she  caught  cold,  amidst  the  glaciers  of  the  Tyrol, 
and  redescended  only  to  take  to  a  sick  bed,  from  which 
she  arose  no  more.  Frau  Stenio's  vow  had  led  her,  in 
one  sense,  to  the  desired  result.  The  poor  woman  was 
now  given  an  opportunity  of  seeking  out  in  propria  per- 
sona the  saints  she  had  believed  in  so  well,  and  of 
pleading  face  to  face  for  the  recreant  son,  who  refused 
adherence  to  them  and  to  the  Church,  scoffed  at  monk 
and  confessional,  and  held  the  organ  in  such  horror. 

Franz  sincerely  lamented  his  mother's  death.  Un- 
aware of  being  the  indirect  cause  of  it,  he  felt  no  re- 
morse ;  but  selling  the  modest  household  goods  and 
chattels,  light  in  purse  and  heart,  he  resolved  to  travel 
on  foot  for  a  year  or  two,  before  settling  down  to  any 
definite  profession. 

A  hazy  desire  to  see  the  great  cities  of  Europe,  and  to 
try  his  luck  in  France,  lurked  at  the  bottom  of  this 
traveling  project,  but  his  Bohemian  habits  of  life  were 
too  strong  to  be  abruptly  abandoned.  He  placed  his 
small  capital  with  a  banker  for  a  rainy  day,  and  started 
on  his  pedestrian  journey  via  Germany  and  Austria. 
His  violin  paid  for  his  board  and  lodging  in  the  inns 
and  farms  on  his  way,  and  he  passed  his  days  in  the 
green  fields  and  in  the  solemn  silent  woods,  face  to  face 
with  Nature,  dreaming  all  the  time  as  usual  with  his 
eyes  open.  During  the  three  months  of  his  pleasant 
travels  to  and  fro,  he  never  descended  for  one  moment 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I09 

from  Parnassus  ;  but,  as  an  alchemist  transmutes  lead 
into  gold,  so  he  transformed  everything  on  his  way  into 
a  song  of  Hesiod  or  Anacreon.  Every  evening,  while 
riddling  for  his  supper  and  bed,  whether  on  a  green 
lawn  or  in  the  hall  of  a  rustic  inn,  his  fancy  changed 
the  whole  scene  for  him.  Village  swains  and  maidens 
became  transfigured  into  Arcadian  shepherds  and 
nymphs.  The  sand-covered  floor  was  now  a  green 
sward  ;  the  uncouth  couples  spinning  round  in  a 
measured  waltz  with  the  wild  grace  of  tamed  bears 
became  priests  and  priestesses  of  Terpsichore;  the  bulky, 
cherry-cheeked  and  blue-eyed  daughters  of  rural  Ger- 
many were  the  Hesperides  circling  around  the  trees 
laden  with  the  golden  apples.  Nor  did  the  melodious 
strains  of  the  Arcadian  demi-gods  piping  on  their 
syrinxes,  and  audible  but  to  his  own  enchanted  ear, 
vanish  with  the  dawn.  For  no  sooner  was  the  curtain 
of  sleep  raised  from  his  eyes  than  he  would  sally  forth 
into  a  new  magic  realm  of  day-dreams.  On  his  way  to 
some  dark  and  solemn  pine-forest,  he  played  incessantly, 
to  himself  and  to  everything  else.  He  fiddled  to  the 
green  hill,  and  forthwith  the  mountain  and  the  moss- 
covered  rocks  moved  forward  to  hear  him  the  better,  as 
they  had  done  at  the  sound  of  the  Orphean  lyre.  He 
fiddled  to  the  merry-voiced  brook,  to  the  hurrying  river, 
and  both  slackened  their  speed  and  stopped  their  waves, 
and,  becoming  silent,  seemed  to  listen  to  him  in  an  en- 
tranced rapture.  Even  the  long-legged  stork  who  stood 
meditatively  on  one  leg  on  the  thatched  top  of  the  rustic 
mill,  gravely  resolving  unto  himself  the  problem  of  his 
too-long  existence,  sent  out  after  him  a  long  and  strident 
cry,  screeching,  "  Art  thou  Orpheus  himself,  0  Stenio  ?  " 
It  was  a  period  of  full  bliss,  of  a  daily  and  almost 
hourly  exaltation.     The  last  words  of  his  dying  mother, 


110  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

whispering  to  him  of  the  horrors  of  eternal  condemnation, 
had  left  him  unaffected,  and  the  only  vision  her  warning 
evoked  in  him  was  that  of  Pluto.  By  a  ready  association 
of  ideas,  he  saw  the  lord  of  the  dark  nether  kingdom 
greeting  him  as  he  had  greeted  the  husband  of  Eurydice 
before  him.  Cbarmed  with  the  magic  sounds  of  his 
violin,  the  wheel  of  Ixion  was  at  a  standstill  once  more, 
thus  affording  relief  to  the  wretched  seducer  of  Juno, 
and  giving  the  lie  to  those  who  claim  eternity  for  the 
duration  of  the  punishment  of  condemned  sinners.  He 
perceived  Tantalus  forgetting  his  never-ceasing  thirst, 
and  smacking  his  lips  as  he  drank  in  the  heaven-born 
melody;  the  stone  of  Sisyphus  becoming  motionless,  the 
Furies  themselves  smiling  on  him,  and  the  sovereign  of 
the  gloomy  regions  delighted,  and  awarding  preference 
to  his  violin  over  the  lyre  of  Orpheus.  Taken  au  serieux, 
mythology  thus  seems  a  decided  antidote  to  fear,  in  the 
face  of  theological  threats,  especially  when  strengthened 
with  an  insane  and  passionate  love  of  music;  with  Franz, 
Euterpe  proved  always  victorious  in  every  contest,  aye, 
even  with  Hell  itself ! 

But  there  is  an  end  to  everything,  and  very  soon 
Franz  had  to  give  up  uninterrupted  dreaming.  He  had 
reached  the  university  town  where  dwelt  his  old  violin 
teacher,  Samuel  Klaus.  When  this  antiquated  musician 
found  that  his  beloved  and  favorite  pupil,  Franz,  had 
been  left  poor  in  purse  and  still  poorer  in  earthly  affec- 
tions, he  felt  his  strong  attachment  to  the  boy  awaken 
with  tenfold  force.  He  took  Franz  to  his  heart,  and 
forthwith  adopted  him  as  his  son. 

The  old  teacher  reminded  people  of  one  of  those 
grotesque  figures  which  look  as  if  they  had  just  stepped 
out  of  some  medieval  panel.  And  yet  Klaus,  with  his 
fantastic  allures  of  a  night-goblin,  had  the  most  loving 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  I  I 

heart,  as  tender  as  that  of  a  woman,  and  the  self- 
sacrificing  nature  of  an  old  Christian  martyr.  When 
Franz  had  briefly  narrated  to  him  the  history  of  his 
last  few  years,  the  professor  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
leading  him  into  his  study  simply  said: 

"  Stop  with  me,  and  put  an  end  to  your  Bohemian  life. 
Make  yourself  famous.  I  am  old  and  childless  and  will 
be  your  father.  Let  us  live  together  and  forget  all  save 
fame." 

And  forthwith  he  offered  to  proceed  with  Franz  to 
Paris,  via  several  large  German  cities,  where  they  would 
stop  to  give  concerts. 

In  a  few  days  Klaus  succeeded  in  making  Franz  forget 
his  vagrant  life  and  its  artistic  independence,  and  re- 
awakened in  his  pupil  his  now  dormant  ambition  and 
desire  for  worldly  fame.  Hitherto,  since  his  mother's 
death,  he  had  been  content  to  received  applause  only 
from  the  Gods  and  Goddesses  who  inhabited  his  vivid 
fancy;  now  he  began  to  crave  once  more  for  the  admira- 
tion of  mortals.  Under  the  clever  and  careful  training 
of  old  Klaus  his  remarkable  talent  gained  in  strength 
and  powerful  charm  with  every  day,  and  his  reputation 
grew  and  expanded  with  every  city  and  town  wherein 
he  made  himself  heard.  His  ambition  was  being  rapidly 
realized  ;  the  presiding  genii  of  various  musical  centers 
to  whose  patronage  his  talent  was  submitted  soon  pro- 
claimed him  the  one  violinist  of  the  day,  and  the  public 
declared  loudly  that  he  stood  unrivaled  by  any  one 
whom  they  had  ever  heard.  These  laudations  very  soon 
made  both  master  and  pupil  completely  lose  their  heads. 

But  Paris  was  less  ready  with  such  appreciation. 
Paris  makes  reputations  for  itself,  and  will  take  none  on 
faith.  They  had  been  living  in  it  for  almost  three  years, 
and  were  still  climbing  with  difficulty  the  artist's  Calvary, 


I  I  2  NIC4HTMARE   TALES 

when  an  event  occurred  which  put  an  end  even  to  their 
most  modest  expectations.  The  first  arrival  of  Niccolo 
Paganini  was  suddenly  heralded,  and  threw  Lutetia  into 
a  convulsion  of  expectation.  The  unparalled  artist 
arrived,  and  —  all  Paris  fell  at  once  at  his  feet. 


II 

Now  it  is  a  well  known  fact  that  a  superstition  born  in 
the  dark  days  of  medieval  superstition,  and  surviving 
almost  to  the  middle  of  the  present  century,  attributed 
all  such  abnormal,  out-of-the-way  talent  as  that  of 
Paganini  to  "  supernatural  "  agency.  Every  great  and 
marvelous  artist  had  been  accused  in  his  day  of  dealings 
with  the  devil.  A  few  instances  will  suffice  to  refresh 
the  reader's  memory. 

Tartini,  the  great  composer  and  violinist  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  was  denounced  as  one  who  got  his 
best  inspirations  from  the  Evil  One,  with  whom  he  was, 
it  was  said,  in  regular  league.  This  accusation  was,  of 
course,  due  to  the  almost  magical  impression  he  pro- 
duced upon  his  audiences.  His  inspired  performance  on 
the  violin  secured  for  him  in  his  native  country  the  title 
of  "  Master  of  Nations."  The  Sonate  du  Diable,  also 
called  "  Tartini's  Dream" — as  everyone  who  has  heard 
it  will  be  ready  to  testify  —  is  the  most  weird  melody 
ever  heard  or  invented  :  hence,  the  marvelous  compo- 
sition has  become  the  source  of  endless  legends.  Nor 
were  they  entirely  baseless,  since  it  was  he,  himself,  who 
was  shown  to  have  originated  them.  Tartini  confessed 
to  having  written  it  on  awakening  from  a  dream,  in 
which  he  had  heard  his  sonata  performed  by  Satan,  for 
his  benefit,  and  in  consequence  of  a  bargain  made  with 
his  infernal  majesty. 


TIIK    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  l  I  3 

Several  famous  singers,  even,  whose  exceptional  voices 
struck  the  hearers  with  superstitious  admiration,  have 
not  escaped  a  like  accusation.  Pasta's  splendid  voice 
was  attributed  in  her  day  to  the  fact  that,  three  months 
before  her  birth,  the  diva's  mother  was  carried  during  a 
trance  to  heaven,  and  there  treated  to  a  vocal  concert 
of  seraphs.  Malibran  was  indebted  for  her  voice  to 
St.  Cecelia,  while  others  said  she  owed  it  to  a  demon  who 
watched  over  her  cradle  and  sung  the  baby  to  sleep. 
Finally,  Paganini — the  unrivaled  performer,  the  mean 
Italian,  who  like  Dryden's  Jubal  striking  on  the  "chorded 
shell  "  forced  the  throngs  that  followed  him  to  worship 
the  divine  sounds  produced,  and  made  people  say  that 
"  less  than  a  God  could  not  dwell  within  the  hollow  of 
his  violin" — Paganini  left  a  legend  too. 

The  almost  supernatural  art  of  the  greatest  violin 
player  that  the  world  has  ever  known  was  often  specu- 
lated upon,  never  understood.  The  effect  produced  by 
him  on  his  audience  was  literally  marvelous,  overpower- 
ing. The  great  Rossini  is  said  to  have  wept  like  a 
sentimental  German  maiden  on  hearing  him  play  for 
the  first  time.  The  Princess  Elisa  of  Lucca,  a  sister  of 
the  great  Napoleon,  in  whose  service  Paganini  was,  as 
director  of  her  private  orchestra,  for  a  long  time  was 
unable  to  hear  him  play  without  fainting.  In  women  he 
produced  nervous  fits  and  hysterics  at  his  will ;  stout- 
hearted men  he  drove  to  frenzy.  He  changed  cowards 
into  heroes  and  made  the  bravest  soldiers  feel  like  so 
many  nervous  school-girls.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  then, 
that  hundreds  of  weird  tales  circulated  for  long  years 
about  and  around  the  mysterious  Genoese,  that  modern 
Orpheus  of  Europe?  One  of  these  was  especially  ghastly. 
It  was  rumored,  and  was  believed  by  more  people  than 
would  probably  like  to  confess  it,  that  the  strings  of  his 


IH  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

violin  were  made  of  human  intestines,  according  to  all  the 
rules  and  requirements  of  the  Black  Art. 

Exaggerated  as  this  idea  may  seem  to  some,  it  has 
nothing  impossible  in  it ;  and  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  it  was  this  legend  that  led  to  the  extraordinary 
events  which  we  are  about  to  narrate.  Human  organs 
are  often  used  by  the  Eastern  Black  Magician,  so-called, 
and  it  is  an  averred  fact  that  some  Bengali  Tantrikas 
(reciters  of  tantras,  or  "invocations  to  the  demon,"  as  a 
reverend  writer  has  described  them)  use  human  corpses, 
and  certain  internal  and  external  organs  pertaining  to 
them,  as  powerful  magical  agents  for  bad  purposes. 

However  this  may  be,  now  that  the  magnetic  and 
mesmeric  potencies  of  hypnotism  are  recognized  as  facts 
by  most  physicians,  it  may  be  suggested  with  less  danger 
than  heretofore  that  the  extraordinary  effects  of  Paga- 
nini's  violin-playing  were  not,  perhaps,  entirely  due  to 
his  talent  and  genius.  The  wonder  and  awe  he  so  easily 
excited  were  as  much  caused  by  his  external  appearance, 
"  which  had  something  weird  and  demoniacal  in  it," 
according  to  certain  of  his  biographers,  as  by  the  in- 
expressible charm  of  his  execution  and  his  remarkable 
mechanical  skill.  The  latter  is  demonstrated  by  his 
perfect  imitation  of  the  flageolet,  and  his  performance  of 
long  and  magnificent  melodies  on  the  G  string-  alone. 
In  this  performance,  which  many  an  artist  has  tried  to 
copy  without  success,  he  remains  unrivaled  to  this  day. 

It  is  owing  to  this  remarkable  appearance  of  his  — 
termed  by  his  friends  eccentric,  and  by  his  too  nervous 
victims,  diabolical  —  that  he  experienced  great  difficulties 
in  refuting  certain  ugly  rumors.  These  were  credited 
far  more  easily  in  his  day  than  they  would  be  now.  It 
was  whispered  throughout  Italy,  and  even  in  his  own 
native  town,  that  Paganini  had  murdered  his  wife,  and. 


THE    ENSOULED    Viol. IN  115 

later  on,  a  mistress,  both  of  whom  he  had  loved 
passionately,  and  both  of  whom  he  had  not  hesitated  to 
sacrifice  to  his  fiendish  ambition.  He  had  made  himself 
proficient  in  magic  arts,  it  was  asserted,  and  had  suc- 
ceeded thereby  in  imprisoning  the  souls  of  his  two 
victims  in  his  violin — his  famous  Cremona. 

It  is  maintained  by  the  immediate  friends  of  Ernst 
T.  \V.  Hoffmann,  the  celebrated  author  of  Die  Elixire 
des  Teufels,  Meister  Martin,  and  other  charming  and 
mystical  tales,  that  Councillor  Crespel,  in  the  Violin  of 
Cremona,  was  taken  from  the  legend  about  Paganini. 
It  is,  as  all  who  have  read  it  know,  the  history  of  a 
celebrated  violin,  into  which  the  voice  and  the  soul  of  a 
famous  diva,  a  woman  whom  Crespel  had  loved  and 
killed,  had  passed,  and  to  which  was  added  the  voice  of 
his  beloved  daughter,  Antonia. 

Nor  was  this  superstition  utterly  ungrounded,  nor  was 
Hoffmann  to  be  blamed  for  adopting  it,  after  he  had 
heard  Paganini's  playing.  The  extraordinary  facility 
with  which  the  artist  drew  out  of  his  instrument,  not 
only  the  most  unearthly  sounds,  but  positively  human 
voices,  justified  the  suspicion.  Such  effects  might  well 
have  startled  an  audience  and  thrown  terror  into  many 
a  nervous  heart.  Add  to  this  the  impenetrable  mystery 
connected  with  a  certain  period  of  Paganini's  youth,  and 
the  most  wild  tales  about  him  must  be  found  in  a 
measure  justifiable,  and  even  excusable;  especially 
among  a  nation  whose  ancestors  knew  the  Borgias  and 
the  Medicis  of  Black  Art  fame. 

Ill 

In  those  pre -telegraphic  days,  newspapers  were 
limited,  and  the  wings  of  fame  had  a  heavier  flight 
than    they    have    now.     Franz    had    hardly    heard    of 


I  I  6  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

Paganini ;  and  when  he  did,  he  swore  he  would  rival, 
if  not  eclipse,  the  Genoese  magician.  Yes,  he  would 
either  become  the  most  famous  of  all  living  violinists,  or 
he  would  break  his  instrument  and  put  an  end  to  his 
life  at  the  same  time. 

Old  Klaus  rejoiced  at  such  a  determination.  He 
rubbed  his  hands  in  glee,  and  jumping  about  on  his 
lame  leg  like  a  crippled  satyr,  he  flattered  and  incensed 
his  pupil,  believing  himself  all  the  while  to  be  performing 
a  sacred  duty  to  the  holy  and  majestic  cause  of  art. 

Upon  first  setting  foot  in  Paris,  three  years  before, 
Franz  had  all  but  failed.  Musical  critics  pronounced 
him  a  rising  star,  but  had  all  agreed  that  he  required  a 
few  more  years'  practice,  before  he  could  hope  to  carry 
his  audiences  by  storm.  Therefore,  after  a  desperate 
study  of  over  two  years  and  uninterrupted  preparations, 
the  Styrian  artist  had  finally  made  himself  ready  for  his 
first  serious  appearance  in  the  great  Opera  House  where 
a  public  concert  before  the  most  exacting  critics  of  the 
old  world  was  to  be  held  ;  at  this  critical  moment  Paga- 
nini's  arrival  in  the  European  metropolis  placed  an 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  realization  of  his  hopes,  and 
the  old  German  professor  wisely  postponed  his  pupil's 
debut.  At  first  he  had  simply  smiled  at  the  wild  enthu- 
siasm, the  laudatory  hymns  sung  about  the  Genoese 
violinist,  and  the  almost  superstitious  awe  with  which 
his  name  was  pronounced.  But  very  soon  Paganini's 
name  became  a  burning  iron  in  the  hearts  of  both  the 
artists,  and  a  threatening  phantom  in  the  mind  of  Klaus. 
A  few  days  more,  and  they  shuddered  at  the  very 
mention  of  their  great  rival,  whose  success  became  with 
every  night  more  unprecedented. 

The  first  series  of  concerts  was  over,  but  neither  Klaus 
nor  Franz  had  as  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  hearing  him 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  I  7 

and  of  judging  for  themselves.  So  great  and  so  beyond 
their  means  was  the  charge  for  admission,  and  so  small 
the  hope  of  getting  a  free  pass  from  a  brother  artist 
justly  regarded  as  the  meanest  of  men  in  monetary 
transactions,  that  they  had  to  wait  for  a  chance,  as  did 
so  many  others.  But  the  day  came  when  neither  master 
nor  pupil  could  control  their  impatience  any  longer  ;  so 
they  pawned  their  watches,  and  with  the  proceeds  bought 
two  modest  seats. 

Who  can  describe  the  enthusiasm,  the  triumphs,  of 
this  famous,  and  at  the  same  time  fatal  night!  The 
audience  was  frantic  ;  men  wept  and  women  screamed 
and  fainted  ;  while  both  Klaus  and  Stenio  sat  looking 
paler  than  two  ghosts.  At  the  first  touch  of  Paganini's 
magic  bow,  both  Franz  and  Samuel  felt  as  if  the  icy 
hand  of  death  had  touched  them.  Carried  away  by  an 
irresistible  enthusiasm,  which  turned  into  a  violent,  un- 
earthly mental  torture,  they  dared  neither  look  into  each 
other's  faces,  nor  exchange  one  word  during  the  whole 
performance. 

At  midnight,  while  the  chosen  delegates  of  the  Musical 
Societies  and  the  Conservatory  of  Paris  unhitched  the 
horses,  and  dragged  the  carriage  of  the  grand  artist  home 
in  triumph,  the  two  Germans  returned  to  their  modest 
lodging,  and  it  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see  them.  Mourn- 
ful and  desperate,  they  placed  themselves  in  their  usual 
seats  at  the  fire-corner,  and  neither  for  a  while  opened 
his  mouth. 

"Samuel!"   at   last  exclaimed    Franz,  pale  as  death 

itself.     "Samuel — it    remains   for    us   now  but  to  die! 

Do  you  hear  me?      .     .      .     We  are  worthless  ! 

We  were  two  madmen  to  have  ever  hoped  that  any  one 

in  this  world  would  ever  rival     .     .     .     him." 


I  I  8  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

The  name  of  Paganini  stuck  in  his  throat,  as  in  utter 
despair  he  fell  into  his  arm  chair. 

The  old  professor's  wrinkles  suddenly  became  purple. 
His  little  greenish  eyes  gleamed  phosphorescently  as, 
bending  toward  his  pupil,  he  whispered  to  him  in  hoarse 
and  broken  tones: 

11  Nein,  Nein  !  Thou  art  wrong,  my  Franz!  I  have 
taught  thee,  and  thou  hast  learned  all  of  the  great  art 
that  a  simple  mortal,  and  a  Christian  by  baptism,  can 
learn  from  another  simple  mortal.  Am  I  to  blame 
because  these  accursed  Italians,  in  order  to  reign  un- 
equaled  in  the  domain  of  art,  have  recourse  to  Satan 
and  the  diabolical  effects  of  Black  Magic  ?  " 

Franz  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  old  master.  There 
was  a  sinister  light  burning  in  those  glittering  orbs  ;  a 
light  telling  plainly  that,  to  secure  such  a  power,  he, 
too,  would  not  scruple  to  sell  himself,  body  and  soul,  to 
the  Evil  One. 

But  he  said  not  a  word,  and,  turning  his  eyes  from  his 
old  master's  face,  gazed  dreamily  at  the  dying  embers. 

The  same  long-forgotten  incoherent  dreams,  which, 
after  seeming  such  realities  to  him  in  his  younger  days, 
had  been  given  up  entirely,  and  had  gradually  faded 
from  his  mind,  now  crowded  back  into  it  with  the  same 
force  and  vividness  as  of  old.  The  grimacing  shades  of 
Ixion,  Sisyphus  and  Tantalus  resurrected  and  stood 
before  him,  saying: 

"What  matters  hell  —  in  which  thou  believest  not. 
And  even  if  hell  there  be,  it  is  the  hell  described  by  the 
old  Greeks,  not  that  of  the  modern  bigots  —  a  locality 
full  of  conscious  shadows,  to  whom  thou  canst  be  a 
second  Orpheus." 

Franz  felt    that    he    was    going    mad,  and,    turning 


THE    ENSOULED    VlOI.IX  I  I  9 

instinctively,  he  looked  his  old  master  once  more  right 
in  the  face.  Then  his  bloodshot  eye  evaded  the  gaze  of 
Klaus. 

Whether  Samuel  understood  the  terrible  state  of  mind 
of  his  pupil,  or  whether  he  wanted  to  draw  him  out,  to 
make  him  speak,  and  thus  to  divert  his  thoughts,  must 
remain  as  hypothetical  to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  the 
writer.  Whatever  may  have  been  in  his  mind,  the 
German  enthusiast  went  on,  speaking  with  a  feigned 
calmness: 

"  Franz,  my  dear  boy,  I  tell  you  that  the  art  of  the 
accursed  Italian  is  not  natural ;  that  it  is  due  neither  to 
study  nor  to  genius.  It  never  was  acquired  in  the  usual, 
natural  way.  You  need  not  stare  at  me  in  that  wild 
manner,  for  what  I  say  is  in  the  mouth  of  millions  of 
people.  Listen  to  what  I  now  tell  you,  and  try  to 
understand.  You  have  heard  the  strange  tale  whispered 
about  the  famous  Tartini  ?  He  died  one  fine  Sabbath 
night  strangled  by  his  familiar  demon,  who  had  taught 
him  how  to  endow  his  violin  with  a  human  voice,  by 
shutting  up  in  it,  by  means  of  incantations,  the  soul  of 
a  young  virgin.  Paganini  did  more.  In  order  to  endow 
his  instrument  with  the  faculty  of  emitting  human 
sounds,  such  as  sobs,  despairing  cries,  supplications, 
moans  of  love  and  fury  —  in  short,  the  most  heart-rend- 
ing notes  of  the  human  voice — Paganini  became  the 
murderer  not  only  of  his  wife  and  his  mistress,  but  also 
of  a  friend,  who  was  more  tenderly  attached  to  him  than 
any  other  being  on  this  earth.  He  then  made  the  four 
chords  of  his  magic  violin  out  of  the  intestines  of  his 
last  victim.  This  is  the  secret  of  his  enchanting  talent 
of  that  overpowering  melody,  that  combination  of 
sounds,  which  you  will  never  be  able  to  master 
unless     .     .     .     ." 


120  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

The  old  man  could  not  finish  his  sentence.  He  stag- 
gered back  before  the  fiendish  look  of  his  pupil,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Franz  was  breathing  heavily,  and  his  eyes  had  an 
expression  which  reminded  Klaus  of  those  of  a  hyena. 
His  pallor  was  cadaverous.  For  some  time  he  could  not 
speak,  but  only  gasp  for  breath.  At  last  he  slowly 
muttered: 

"  Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"  I  am,  as  I  hope  to  help  you." 

aAnd  .  .  .  And  do  you  really  believe  that  had  I 
only  the  means  of  obtaining  human  intestines  for  strings, 
I  could  rival  Paganini  ?  "  asked  Franz,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  and  casting  down  his  eyes. 

The  old  German  unveiled  his  face,  and,  with  a  strange 
look  of  determination  upon  it,  softly  answered: 

"Human  intestines  alone  are  not  sufficient  for  our 
purpose;  they  must  have  belonged  to  some  one  who  had 
loved  us  well,  with  an  unselfish,  holy  love.  Tartini 
endowed  his  violin  with  the  life  of  a  virgin  ;  but  that 
virgin  had  died  of  unrequited  love  for  him.  The  fiendish 
artist  had  prepared  beforehand  a  tube,  in  which  he 
managed  to  catch  her  last  breath  as  she  expired,  pro- 
nouncing his  beloved  name,  and  he  then  transferred 
this  breath  to  his  violin.  As  to  Paganini,  I  have  just 
told  you  his  tale.  It  was  with  the  consent  of  his  victim, 
though,  that  he  murdered  him  to  get  possession  of  his 
intestines. 

"Oh,  for  the  power  of  the  human  voice!"  Samuel 
went  on,  after  a  brief  pause.  "  What  can  equal  the 
eloquence,  the  magic  spell  of  the  human  voice?  Do  you 
think,  my  poor  boy,  I  would  not  have  taught  you  this 
great,  this  final  secret,  were  it  not  that  it  throws  one 
right  into  the  clutches  of  him     .    .     .     who  must  remain 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  2  I 

unnamed  at  night?"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  return  to 
the  superstitions  of  his  youth. 

Franz  did  not  answer;  but  with  a  calmness  awful  to 
behold,  he  left  his  place,  took  down  his  violin  from  the 
wall  where  it  was  hanging,  and,  with  one  powerful  grasp 
of  the  chords,  he  tore  them  out  and  flung  them  into 
the  fire. 

Samuel  suppressed  a  cry  of  horror.  The  chords  were 
hissing  upon  the  coals,  where,  among  the  blazing  logs, 
they  wriggled  and  curled  like  so  many  living  snakes. 

"By  the  witches  of  Thessaly  and  the  dark  arts  of 
Circe!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  foaming  mouth  and  his  eyes 
burning  like  coals;  "by  the  Furies  of  Hell  and  Pluto 
himself,  I  now  swear,  in  thy  presence,  0  Samuel,  my 
master,  never  to  touch  a  violin  again  until  I  can  string 
it  with  four  human  chords.  May  I  be  accursed  for  ever 
and  ever  if  I  do  !  "  He  fell  senseless  on  the  floor,  with  a 
deep  sob,  that  ended  like  a  funeral  wail  ;  old  Samuel 
lifted  him  up  as  he  would  have  lifted  a  child,  and  carried 
him  to  his  bed.  Then  he  sallied  forth  in  search  of  a 
physician. 

IV 

For  several  days  after  this  painful  scene  Franz  was 
very  ill,  ill  almost  beyond  recovery.  The  physician 
declared  him  to  be  suffering  from  brain  fever  and  said 
that  the  worst  was  to  be  feared.  For  nine  long  days 
the  patient  remained  delirious  ;  and  Klaus,  who  was 
nursing  him  night  and  day  with  the  solicitude  of  the 
tenderest  mother,  was  horrified  at  the  work  of  his  own 
hands.  For  the  first  time  since  their  acquaintance 
began,  the  old  teacher,  owing  to  the  wild  ravings  of  his 
pupil,  was  able  to  penetrate  into  the  darkest  corners  of 


122  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

that  weird,  superstitious,  cold,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
passionate  nature;  and  —  he  trembled  at  what  he  dis- 
covered. For  he  saw  that  which  he  had  failed  to 
perceive  before — Franz  as  he  was  in  reality,  and  not  as 
he  seemed  to  superficial  observers.  Music  was  the  life  of 
the  young  man,  and  adulation  was  the  air  he  breathed, 
without  which  that  life  became  a  burden  ;  from  the 
chords  of  his  violin  alone,  Stenio  drew  his  life  and 
being,  but  the  applause  of  men  and  even  of  Gods  was 
necessary  to  its  support.  He  saw  unveiled  before  his 
eyes  a  genuine,  artistic,  earthly  soul,  with  its  divine 
counterpart  totally  absent,  a  son  of  the  Muses,  all  fancy 
and  brain  poetry,  but  without  a  heart.  While  listening 
to  the  ravings  of  that  delirious  and  unhinged  fancy 
Klaus  felt  as  if  he  were  for  the  first  time  in  his  long 
life  exploring  a  marvelous  and  untraveled  region,  a 
human  nature  not  of  this  world  but  of  some  incomplete 
planet.  He  saw  all  this,  and  shuddered.  More  than 
once  he  asked  himself  whether  it  would  not  be  doing 
a  kindness  to  his  "  boy"  to  let  him  die  before  he  returned 
to  consciousness. 

But  he  loved  his  pupil  too  well  to  dwell  for  long  on 
such  an  idea.  Franz  had  bewitched  his  truly  artistic 
nature,  and  now  old  Klaus  felt  as  though  their  two  lives 
were  inseparably  linked  together.  That  he  could  thus 
feel  was  a  revelation  to  the  old  man  ;  so  he  decided  to 
save  Franz,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  own  old  and,  as 
he  thought,  useless  life. 

The  seventh  day  of  the  illness  brought  on  a  most 
terrible  crisis.  For  twenty-four  hours  the  patient  never 
closed  his  eyes,  nor  remained  for  a  moment  silent ;  he 
raved  continuously  during  the  whole  time.  His  visions 
were  peculiar,  and  he  minutely  described  each.  Fantas- 
tic, ghastly   figures  kept   slowly    swimming   out  of  the 


THE   ENSOULED    Viol. IN  123 

penumbra  of  his  small  dark  room,  in  regular  and  un- 
interrupted procession,  and  he  greeted  each  by  name  as 
he  might  greet  old  acquaintances.  He  referred  to  him- 
self as  Prometheus,  bound  to  the  rock  by  four  bands 
made  of  human  intestines.  At  the  foot  of  the  Caucasian 
Mount  the  black  waters  of  the  river  Styx  were  running. 
.  .  .  .  They  had  deserted  Arcadia,  and  were  now 
endeavoring  to  encircle  within  a  seven-fold  embrace 
the  rock  upon  which  he  was  suffering.     .     .     . 

"  Wouldst  thou  know  the  name  of  the  Promethean 
rock,  old  man  ?  "  he  roared  into  his  adopted  father's  ear. 
.  .  .  "  Listen  then,  ...  its  name  is  .  .  .  called 
.     .     .     Samuel  Klaus.     .     .     ." 

"Yes,  yes!  .  .  "  the  German  murmured  disconso- 
lately. "  It  is  I  who  killed  him,  while  seeking  to  con- 
sole. The  news  of  Paganini's  magic  arts  struck  his 
fancy  too  vividly.     .     .     .     Oh,  my  poor,  poor  boy!  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!"  The  patient  broke  into  a  loud  and 
discordant  laugh.  "  Aye,  poor  old  man,  sayest  thou  ? 
.  .  .  So,  so,  thou  art  of  poor  stuff,  anyhow,  and 
wouldst  look  well  only  when  stretched  upon  a  fine 
Cremona  violin!     .     .     ." 

Klaus  shuddered,  but  said  nothing.  He  only  bent  over 
the  poor  maniac,  and  with  a  kiss  upon  his  brow,  a  caress 
as  tender  and  as  gentle  as  that  of  a  doting  mother,  he 
left  the  sick-room  for  a  few  instants,  to  seek  relief  in  his 
own  garret.  When  he  returned,  the  ravings  were  follow- 
ing another  channel.  Franz  was  singing,  trying  to 
imitate  the  sounds  of  a  violin. 

Toward  the  evening  of  that  day,  the  delirium  of  the 
sick  man  became  perfectly  ghastly.  He  saw  spirits  of 
fire  clutching  at  his  violin.  Their  skeleton  hands,  from 
each  finger  of  which  grew  a  flaming  claw,  beckoned  to 
old  Samuel.     .     .     .     They  approached  and  surrounded 


124  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

the  old  master,  and  were  preparing  to  rip  him  open  .  .  . 
him  "  the  only  man  on  this  earth  who  loves  me  with  an 
unselfish,  holy  love,  and  .  .  .  whose  intestines  can 
be  of  any  good  at  all!"  he  went  on  whispering,  with 
glaring  eyes  and  demon  laugh.     .     .     . 

By  the  next  morning,  however,  the  fever  had  dis- 
appeared, and  by  the  end  of  the  ninth  day  Stenio  had 
left  his  bed,  having  no  recollection  of  his  illness,  and  no 
suspicion  that  he  had  allowed  Klaus  to  read  his  inner 
thought.  Nay;  had  he  himself  any  knowledge  that  such 
a  horrible  idea  as  the  sacrifice  of  his  old  master  to  his 
ambition  had  ever  entered  his  mind  ?  Hardly.  The 
only  immediate  result  of  his  fatal  illness  was,  that  as,  by 
reason  of  his  vow,  his  artistic  passion  could  find  no 
issue,  another  passion  awoke,  which  might  avail  to  feed 
his  ambition  and  his  insatiable  fancy.  He  plunged 
headlong  into  the  study  of  the  Occult  Arts,  of  Alchemy 
and  of  Magic.  In  the  practice  of  Magic  the  young 
dreamer  sought  to  stifle  the  voice  of  his  passionate 
longing  for  his,  as  he  thought,  for  ever  lost  violin.    .    .    . 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  the  conversation 
about  Paganini  was  never  resumed  between  the  master 
and  the  pupil.  But  a  profound  melancholy  had  taken 
possession  of  Franz,  the  two  hardly  exchanged  a  word, 
the  violin  hung  mute,  chordless,  full  of  dust,  in  its 
habitual  place.  It  was  as  the  presence  of  a  soulless 
corpse  between  them. 

The  young  man  had  become  gloomy  and  sarcastic, 
even  avoiding  the  mention  of  music.  Once,  as  his  old 
professor,  after  long  hesitation,  took  out  his  own  violin 
from  its  dust-covered  case  and  prepared  to  play,  Franz 
gave  a  convulsive  shudder,  but  said  nothing.  At  the 
first  notes  of  the  bow,  however,  he  glared  like  a  madman, 
and    rushing    out   of    the   house,   remained   for   hours, 


THE    ENSOULED   VIOLIN  I  25 

wandering  in  the  streets.  Then  old  Samuel  in  his  turn 
threw  his  instrument  down,  and  locked  himself  up  in  his 
room  till  the  following  morning. 

One  night  as  Franz  sat,  looking  particularly  pale  and 
gloomy,  old  Samuel  suddenly  jumped  from  his  seat, 
and  after  hopping  about  the  room  in  a  magpie  fashion, 
approached  his  pupil,  imprinted  a  fond  kiss  upon  the 
young  man's  brow,  and  squeaked  at  the  top  of  his  shrill 
voice: 

"Is  it  not  time  to  put  an  end  to  all  this?"     .     .     . 

Whereupon,  starting  from  his  usual  lethargy,  Franz 
echoed,  as  in  a  dream: 

"  Yes,  it  is  time  to  put  an  end  to  this." 

Upon  which  the  two  separated,  and  went  to  bed. 

On  the  following  morning,  when  Franz  awoke,  he  was 
astonished  not  to  see  his  old  teacher  in  his  usual  place 
to  greet  him.  But  he  had  greatly  altered  during  the  last 
few  months,  and  he  at  first  paid  no  attention  to  his 
absence,  unusual  as  it  was.  He  dressed  and  went  into 
the  adjoining  room,  a  little  parlor  where  they  had  their 
meals,  and  which  separated  their  two  bedrooms.  The 
fire  had  not  been  lighted  since  the  embers  had  died  out 
on  the  previous  night,  and  no  sign  was  anywhere  visible  of 
the  professor's  busy  hand  in  his  usual  housekeeping 
duties.  Greatly  puzzled,  but  in  no  way  dismayed,  Franz 
took  his  usual  place  at  the  corner  of  the  now  cold  fire- 
place, and  fell  into  an  aimless  reverie.  As  he  stretched 
himself  in  his  old  arm-chair,  raising  both  his  hands  to 
clasp  them  behind  his  head  in  a  favorite  posture  of  his, 
his  hand  came  into  contact  with  something  on  a  shelf 
at  his  back ;  he  knocked  against  a  case,  and  brought  it 
violently  on  the  ground. 

It  was  old  Klaus'  violin-case  that  came  down  to  the 
floor  with  such  a  sudden  crash  that  the  case  opened  and 


126  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

the  violin  fell  out  of  it,  rolling  to  the  feet  of  Franz. 
And  then  the  chords,  striking  against  the  brass  fender 
emitted  a  sound,  prolonged,  sad  and  mournful  as  the 
sigh  of  an  unrestful  soul;  it  seemed  to  fill  the  whole 
room,  and  reverberated  in  the  head  and  the  very  heart 
of  the  young  man.  The  effect  of  that  broken  violin- 
string  was  magical. 

"Samuel!"  cried  Stenio,  with  his  eyes  starting  from 
their  sockets,  and  an  unknown  terror  suddenly  taking 
possession  of  his  whole  being.  "  Samuel !  what  has 
happened?  .  .  .  My  good,  my  dear  old  master  !"  he 
called  out,  hastening  to  the  professor's  little  room,  and 
throwing  the  door  violently  open.  No  one  answered,  all 
was  silent  within. 

He  staggered  back,  frightened  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice,  so  changed  and  hoarse  it  seemed  to  him  at  this 
moment.  No  reply  came  in  response  to  his  call.  Naught 
followed  but  a  dead  silence.  .  .  .  that  stillness  which, 
in  the  domain  of  sounds,  usually  denotes  death.  In  the 
presence  of  a  corpse,  as  in  the  lugubrious  stillness  of  a 
tomb,  such  silence  acquires  a  mysterious  power,  which 
strikes  the  sensitive  soul  with  a  nameless  terror.  .  .  . 
The  little  room  was  dark,  and  Franz  hastened  to  open 
the  shutters. 

Samuel  was  lying  on  his  bed,  cold,  stiff,  and  lifeless. 
.  .  .  At  the  sight  of  the  corpse  of  him  who  had  loved 
him  so  well,  and  had  been  to  him  more  than  a  father, 
Franz  experienced  a  dreadful  revulsion  of  feeling,  a 
terrible  shock.  But  the  ambition  of  the  fanatical  artist 
got  the  better  of  the  despair  of  the  man,  and  smothered 
the  feelings  of  the  latter  in  a  few  seconds. 

A    note   bearing   his   own    name    was    conspicuously 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  1  27 

placed  upon  a  table  near  the  corpse.  With  trembling 
hand,  the  violinist  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  read  the 
following: 

My  bkloved  son,  Franz, 

When  you  read  this,  I  shall  have  made  the  greatest  sacrifice 
that  your  best  and  only  friend  and  teacher  could  have  accom- 
plished for  your  fame.  He,  who  loved  you  most,  is  now  but  an 
inanimate  lump  of  clay.  Of  your  old  teacher  there  now  remains 
but  a  clod  of  cold  organic  matter.  I  need  not  prompt  you  as  to 
what  you  have  to  do  with  it.  Fear  not  stupid  prejudices.  It  is 
for  your  future  fame  that  I  have  made  an  offering  of  my  body, 
and  you  would  be  guilty  of  the  blackest  ingratitude  were  you 
now  to  render  useless  this  sacrifice.  When  you  shall  have  re- 
placed the  chords  upon  your  violin,  and  these  chords  a  portion  of 
my  own  self,  under  your  touch  it  will  acquire  the  power  of  that 
accursed  sorcerer,  all  the  magic  voices  of  Paganini's  instrument. 
You  will  find  therein  my  voice,  my  sighs  and  groans,  my  song  of 
welcome,  the  prayerful  sobs  of  my  infinite  and  sorrowful  sym- 
pathy, my  love  for  you.  And  now,  my  Franz,  fear  nobody! 
Take  your  instrument  with  you,  and  dog  the  steps  of  him  who 
filled  our  lives  with  bitterness  and  despair !  .  .  .  Appear  in 
every  arena,  where,  hitherto,  he  has  reigned  without  a  rival,  and 
bravely  throw  the  gauntlet  of  defiance  in  his  face.  O  Franz ! 
then  only  wilt  thou  hear  with  what  a  magic  power  the  full  notes 
of  unselfish  love  will  issue  forth  from  thy  violin.  Perchance, 
with  a  last  caressing  touch  of  its  chords,  thou  wilt  remember 
that  they  once  formed  a  portion  of  thine  old  teacher,  who  now 
embraces  and  blesses  thee  for  the  last  time. 

Samuel 

Two  burning  tears  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of  Franz,  but 
they  dried  up  instantly.  Under  the  fiery  rush  of  pas- 
sionate hope  and  pride,  the  two  orbs  of  the  future 
magician-artist,  riveted  to  the  ghastly  face  of  the  dead 
man,  shone  like  the  eyes  of  a  demon. 

Our  pen  refuses  to  describe  that  which  took  place  on 
that  day,  after  the  legal  inquiry  was  over.  As  another 
note,  written  with  the  view  of  satisfying  the  authorities, 
had  been  prudently  provided  by  the  loving  care  of  the 


128  NIGHTMARE    TALKS 

old  teacher,  the  verdict  was,  "  Suicide  from  causes  un- 
known;" after  this  the  coroner  and  the  police  retired, 
leaving  the  bereaved  heir  alone  in  the  death-room,  with 
the  remains  of  that  which  had  once  been  a  living  man. 

Scarcely  a  fortnight  had  elapsed  from  that  day,  ere  the 
violin  had  been  dusted,  and  four  new,  stout  strings  had 
been  stretched  upon  it.  Franz  dared  not  look  at  them. 
He  tried  to  play,  but  the  bow  trembled  in  his  hand  like 
a  dagger  in  the  grasp  of  a  novice-brigand.  He  then 
determined  not  to  try  again,  until  the  portentous  night 
should  arrive,  when  he  should  have  a  chance  of  rivaling, 
nay,  of  surpassing,  Paganini. 

The  famous  violinist  had  meanwhile  left  Paris,  and 
was  giving  a  series  of  triumphant  concerts  at  an  old 
Flemish  town  in  Belgium. 

V 

One  night,  as  Paganini,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
admirers,  was  sitting  in  the  dining-room  of  the  hotel  at 
which  he  was  staying,  a  visiting  card,  with  a  few  words 
written  on  it  in  pencil,  was  handed  to  him  by  a  young 
man  with  wild  and  staring  eyes. 

Fixing  upon  the  intruder  a  look  which  few  persons 
could  bear,  but  receiving  back  a  glance  as  calm  and 
determined  as  his  own,  Paganini  slightly  bowed,  and 
then  dryly  said: 

"  Sir,  it  shall  be  as  you  desire.  Name  the  night.  I  am 
at  your  service." 

On  the  following  morning  the  whole  town  was  startled 
by  the  appearance  of  bills  posted  at  the  corner  of  every 
street,  and  bearing  the  strange  notice: 

On  the  night  of     .     .     .at  the  Grand  Theater  of     .     .     .  and 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  29 

for  the  first  time,  will  appear  before  the  public,  Franz  Stenio,  a 
German  violinist,  arrived  purposely  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet 
to  the  world-famous  Paganini  and  to  challenge  him  to  a  duel — 
upon  their  violins.  He  purposes  to  compete  with  the  great  "vir- 
tuoso" in  the  execution  of  the  most  difficult  of  his  compositions. 
The  famous  Paganini  has  accepted  the  challenge.  Franz  Stenio 
will  play,  in  competition  with  the  unrivaled  violinist,  the  cele- 
brated "  Fantaisie  Caprice"  of  the  latter,  known  as  "The 
Witches." 

The  effect  of  the  notice  was  magical.  Paganini,  who, 
amid  his  greatest  triumphs,  never  lost  sight  of  a  profit- 
able speculation,  doubled  the  usual  price  of  admission, 
but  still  the  theater  could  not  hold  the  crowds  that  flocked 
to  secure  tickets  for  that  memorable  performance. 

At  last  the  morning  of  the  concert  day  dawned,  and 
the  "duel"  was  in  everyone's  mouth.  Franz  Stenio, 
who,  instead  of  sleeping,  had  passed  the  whole  long 
hours  of  the  preceding  midnight  in  walking  up  and 
down  his  room  like  an  encaged  panther,  had,  toward 
morning,  fallen  on  his  bed  from  mere  physical  exhaustion. 
Gradually  he  passed  into  a  death-like  and  dreamless 
slumber.  At  the  gloomy  winter  dawn  he  awoke,  but 
finding  it  too  early  to  rise  he  fell  to  sleep  again.  And 
then  he  had  a  vivid  dream  —  so  vivid  indeed,  so  life-like, 
that  from  its  terrible  realism  he  felt  sure  that  it  was  a 
vision  rather  than  a  dream. 

He  had  left  his  violin  on  a  table  by  his  bedside,  locked 
in  its  case,  the  key  of  which  never  left  him.  Since  he 
had  strung  it  with  those  terrible  chords  he  never  let  it 
out  of  his  sight  for  a  moment.  In  accordance  with  his 
resolution  he  had  not  touched  it  since  his  first  trial,  and 
his  bow  had  never  but  once  touched  the  human  strings, 
for  he  had  since  always  practised  on  another  instrument. 
But  now  in  his  sleep  he  saw  himself  looking  at  the  locked 


•3°  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

case.  Something  in  it  was  attracting  his  attention,  and 
he  found  himself  incapable  of  detaching  his  eyes  from  it. 
Suddenly  he  saw  the  upper  part  of  the  case  slowly 
rising,  and,  within  the  chink  thus  produced,  he  perceived 
two  small,  phosphorescent  green  eyes — eyes  but  too 
familiar  to  him — fixing  themselves  on  his,  lovingly, 
almost  beseechingly.  Then  a  thin,  shrill  voice,  as  if 
issuing  from  these  ghastly  orbs  —  the  voice  and  orbs  of 
Samuel  Klaus  himself  —  resounded  in  Stenio's  horrified 
ear,  and  he  heard  it  say: 

"Franz,  my  beloved  boy.  .  .  .  Franz,  I  cannot, 
no,  / cannot  separate  myself  from     .     .     .     them!" 

And  :'they"  twanged  piteously  inside  the  case. 

Franz  stood  speechless,  horror-bound.  He  felt  his 
blood  actually  freezing,  and  his  hair  moving  and  stand- 
ing erect  on  his  head.     .     .     . 

"  It's  but  a  dream,  an  empty  dream!"  he  attempted  to 
formulate  in  his  mind. 

"  I  have  tried  my  best,  Franzchen.  ...  I  have 
tried  my  best  to  sever  myself  from  these  accursed  strings, 
without  pulling  them  to  pieces  .  .  ."  pleaded  the 
same  shrill,  familiar  voice.  "Wilt  thou  help  me  to  do 
so?     .     .     ." 

Another  twang,  still  more  prolonged  and  dismal,  re- 
sounded within  the  case,  now  dragged  about  the  table  in 
every  direction,  by  some  interior  power,  like  some  living 
wriggling  thing,  the  twangs  becoming  sharper  and  more 
jerky  with  every  new  pull. 

It  was  not  for  the  first  time  that  Stenio  heard  those 
sounds.  He  had  often  remarked  them  before  —  indeed, 
ever  since  he  had  used  his  master's  viscera  as  a  foot- 
stool for  his  own  ambition.  But  on  every  occasion  a 
feeling    of    creeping    horror    had    prevented    him    from 


THE    ENSOULED    Viol. IN  I  3  l 

investigating  their  cause,  and  he  had  tried  to  assure 
himself  that  the  sounds  were  only  a  hallucination. 

But  now  he  stood  face  to  face  with  the  terrible  fact, 
whether  in  dream  or  in  reality  he  knew  not,  nor  did  he 
care,  since  the  hallucination  —  if  hallucination  it  were  — 
was  far  more  real  and  vivid  than  any  reality.  He  tried 
to  speak,  to  take  a  step  forward  ;  but,  as  often  happens 
in  nightmares,  he  could  neither  utter  a  word  nor  move  a 
finger.     .     .     .     He  felt  hopelessly  paralyzed. 

The  pulls  and  jerks  were  becoming  more  desperate 
with  each  moment,  and  at  last  something  inside  the 
case  snapped  violently.  The  vision  of  his  Stradivarius, 
devoid  of  its  magical  strings,  flashed  before  his  eyes, 
throwing  him  into  a  cold  sweat  of  mute  and  unspeakable 
terror. 

He  made  a  superhuman  effort  to  rid  himself  of  the 
incubus  that  held  him  spell-bound.  But  as  the  last 
supplicating  whisper  of  the  invisible  Presence  repeated : 

"  Do,  oh,  do     .     .     .     help  me  to  cut  myself  off " 

Franz  sprang  to  the  case  with  one  bound,  like  an 
enraged  tiger  defending  its  prey,  and  with  one  frantic 
effort  breaking  the  spell. 

"  Leave  the  violin  alone,  you  old  fiend  from  hell !"  he 
cried,  in  hoarse  and  trembling  tones. 

He  violently  shut  down  the  self-raising  lid,  and  while 
firmly  pressing  his  left  hand  on  it,  he  seized  with  the 
right  a  piece  of  rosin  from  the  table  and  he  drew  on  the 
leathered-covered  top  the  sign  of  the  six-pointed  star  — 
the  seal  used  by  King  Solomon  to  bottle  up  the  rebellious 
djins  inside  their  prisons. 

A  wail,  like  the  howl  of  a  she-wolf  moaning  over  her 
dead  little  ones,  came  out  of  the  violin-case: 

"  Thou  art  ungrateful  .  .  .  very  ungrateful,  my 
Franz!"  sobbed  the  blubbering  "spirit-voice."     "  But  I 


132 


NIGHTMARE   TALES 


"HE  VIOLENTLY  SHUT  DOWN  THE  SELF-RAISING  LID 
AND  DREW  ON  THE  LEATHER-COVERED  TOP  THE  SIGN 
OF  THE  SIX-POINTED  STAR,  THE  SEAL  OF  KING  SOLOMON." 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  33 

forgive     .      .     .     for  I  still  love  thee  well.     Yet    thou 
canst  not  shut  me  in     .     .     .     boy.     Behold  ! " 

And  instantly  a  grayish  mist  spread  over  and  covered 
case  and  table,  and  rising  upward  formed  itself  first  into 
an  indistinct  shape.  Then  it  began  growing,  and  as  it 
grew,  Franz  felt  himself  gradually  enfolded  in  cold  and 
damp  coils,  slimy  as  those  of  a  huge  snake.  He  gave  a 
terrible  cry  and  —  awoke;  but,  strangely  enough,  not  on 
his  bed,  but  near  the  table,  just  as  he  had  dreamed, 
pressing  the  violin -case  desperately  with  both  his 
hands. 

"It  was  but  a  dream,  .  .  after  all,"  he  muttered, 
still  terrified,  but  relieved  of  the  load  on  his  heaving 
breast. 

With  a  tremendous  effort  he  composed  himself,  and 
unlocked  the  case  to  inspect  the  violin.  He  found  it 
covered  with  dust,  but  otherwise  sound  and  in  order,  and 
he  suddenly  felt  himself  as  cool  and  determined  as  ever. 
Having  dusted  the  instrument  he  carefully  rosined  the 
the  bow,  tightened  the  strings  and  tuned  them.  He  even 
went  so  far  as  to  try  upon  it  the  first  notes  of  the 
"Witches";  first  cautiously  and  timidly,  then  using  his 
bow  boldly  and  with  full  force. 

The  sound  of  that  loud,  solitary  note  —  defiant  as  the 
war  trumpet  of  a  conqueror,  sweet  and  majestic  as  the 
touch  of  a  seraph  on  his  golden  harp  in  the  fancy  of 
the  faithful  —  thrilled  through  the  very  soul  of  Franz. 
It  revealed  to  him  a  hitherto  unsuspected  potency  in  his 
bow,  which  ran  on  in  strains  that  filled  the  room  with 
the  richest  swell  of  melody,  unheard  by  the  artist  until 
that  night.  Commencing  in  uninterrupted  legato  tones, 
his  bow  sang  to  him  of  sun-bright  hope  and  beauty,  of 
moonlit    nights,    when    the    soft  and    balmy    stillness 


I  34  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

endowed  every  blade  of  grass  and  all  things  animate  and 
inanimate  with  a  voice  and  a  song  of  love.  For  a  few 
brief  moments  it  was  a  torrent  of  melody,  the  harmony 
of  which,  "tuned  to  soft  woe,"  was  calculated  to  make 
mountains  weep,  had  there  been  any  in  the  room,  and  to 
soothe 

.  .  .  .  even  th'  inexorable  powers  of  hell, 
the  presence  of  which  was  undeniably  felt  in  this  modest 
hotel  room.  Suddenly,  the  solemn  legato  chant,  contrary 
to  all  laws  of  harmony,  quivered,  became  arpeggios,  and 
ended  in  shrill  staccatos,  like  the  notes  of  a  hyena  laugh. 
The  same  creeping  sensation  of  terror,  as  he  had  before 
felt,  came  over  him,  and  Franz  threw  the  bow  away.  He 
had  recognized  the  familiar  laugh,  and  would  have  no 
more  of  it.  Dressing,  he  locked  the  bedeviled  violin 
securely  in  its  case,  and,  taking  it  with  him  to  the 
dining-room,  determined  to  await  quietly  the  hour  of 
trial. 


VI 

The  terrible  hour  of  the  struggle  had  come,  and  Stenio 
was  at  his  post  —  calm,  resolute,  almost  smiling. 

The  theater  was  crowded  to  suffocation,  and  there  was 
not  even  standing  room  to  be  got  for  any  amount  of  hard 
cash  or  favoritism.  The  singular  challenge  had  reached 
every  quarter  to  which  the  post  could  carry  it,  and  gold 
flowed  freely  into  Paganini's  unfathomable  pockets,  to  an 
extent  almost  satisfying  even  to  his  insatiate  and  venal 
soul. 

It  was  arranged  that  Paganini  should  begin.  When 
he  appeared  upon  the  stage,  the  thick  walls  of  the  theater 
shook  to  their  foundations  with  the  applause  that  greeted 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  3  5 

him.  He  began  and  ended  his  famous  composition  "  The 
Witches"  amid  a  storm  of  cheers.  The  shouts  of  public 
enthusiasm  lasted  so  long  that  Franz  began  to  think  his 
turn  would  never  come.  When,  at  last,  Paganini,  amid 
the  roaring  applause  of  a  frantic  public,  was  allowed  to 
retire  behind  the  scenes,  his  eye  fell  upon  Stenio,  who 
was  tuning  his  violin,  and  he  felt  amazed  at  the  serene 
calmness,  the  air  of  assurance,  of  the  unknown  German 
artist. 

When  Franz  approached  the  footlights,  he  was  received 
with  icy  coldness.  But  for  all  that,  he  did  not  feel  in 
the  least  disconcerted.  He  looked  very  pale,  but  his 
thin  white  lips  wore  a  scornful  smile  as  response  to  this 
dumb  unwelcome.     He  was  sure  of  his  triumph. 

At  the  first  notes  of  the  prelude  of  "The  Witches"  a 
thrill  of  astonishment  passed  over  the  audience.  It  was 
Paganini's  touch,  and — it  was  something  more.  Some — 
and  they  were  the  majority — thought  that  never,  in  his 
best  moments  of  inspiration,  had  the  Italian  artist  him- 
self, in  executing  that  diabolical  composition  of  his,  ex- 
hibited such  an  extraordinary  diabolical  power.  Under 
the  pressure  of  the  long  muscular  fingers  of  Franz,  the 
chords  shivered  like  the  palpitating  intestines  of  a  dis- 
emboweled victim  under  the  vivisector's  knife.  They 
moaned  melodiously,  like  a  dying  child.  The  large  blue 
eye  of  the  artist,  fixed  with  a  satanic  expression  upon 
the  sounding-board,  seemed  to  summon  forth  Orpheus 
himself  from  the  infernal  regions,  rather  than  the 
musical  notes  supposed  to  be  generated  in  the  depths  of 
the  violin.  Sounds  seemed  to  transform  themselves  into 
objective  shapes,  thickly  and  precipitately  gathering  as 
at  the  evocation  of  a  mighty  magician,  and  to  be  whirling 
around  him,  like  a  host  of  fantastic,  infernal  figures, 
dancing  the  witches'  "  goat  dance."    In  the  empty  depths 


I36  NIGHTMARE   TALES 

of  the  shadowy  background  of  the  stage,  behind  the  artist, 
a  nameless  phantasmogoria,  produced  by  the  concussion 
of  unearthly  vibrations,  seemed  to  form  pictures  of 
shameless  orgies,  of  the  voluptuous  hymens  of  a  real 
witches'  Sabbat.  ...  A  collective  hallucination  took 
hold  of  the  public.  Panting  for  breath,  ghastly,  and 
trickling  with  the  icy  perspiration  of  an  inexpressible 
horror,  they  sat  spell-bound,  and  unable  to  break  the 
spell  of  the  music  by  the  slightest  motion.  They  ex- 
perienced all  the  illicit  enervating  delights  of  the 
paradise  of  Mahommed,  that  come  into  the  disordered 
fancy  of  an  opium-eating  Mussulman,  and  felt  at  the 
same  time  the  abject  terror,  the  agony  of  one  who 
struggles  against  an  attack  of  delirium  tremens. 
Many  ladies  shrieked  aloud,  others  fainted,  and  strong 
men  gnashed  their  teeth  in  a  state  of  utter  helplessness. 

Then  came  the  finale.  Thundering  uninterrupted 
applause  delayed  its  beginning,  expanding  the  momen- 
tary pause  to  a  duration  of  almost  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
The  bravos  were  furious,  almost  hysterical.  At  last, 
when  after  a  profound  and  last  bow,  Stenio,  whose  smile 
was  as  sardonic  as  it  was  triumphant,  lifted  his  bow  to 
attack  the  famous  finale,  his  eye  fell  upon  Paganini,  who, 
calmly  seated  in  the  manager's  box,  had  been  behind 
none  in  zealous  applause.  The  small  and  piercing  black 
eyes  of  the  Genoese  artist  were  riveted  to  the  Stradi- 
varius  in  the  hands  of  Franz,  but  otherwise  he  seemed 
quite  cool  and  unconcerned.  His  rival's  face  troubled 
him  for  one  short  instant,  but  he  regained  his  self- 
possession  and,  lifting  once  more  his  bow,  drew  the  first 
note. 

Then  the  public  enthusiasm  reached  its  acme,  and 
soon  knew   no   bounds.      Tbe   listeners  heard  and  saw 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  37 

indeed.     The  witches'  voices  resounded  in  the  air,  and 
beyond  all  the  other  voices,  one  voice  was  heard  — 

Discordant,  and  unlike  to  human  sounds; 

It  seem'd  of  dogs  the  bark,  of  wolves  the  howl ; 

The  doleful  screechings  of  the  midnight  owl; 

The  hiss  of  snakes,  the  hungry  lion's  roar; 

The  sounds  of  billows  beating  on  the  shore; 

The  groan  of  winds  among  the  leafy  wood, 

And  burst  of  thunder  from  the  rending  cloud; — 

'Twas  these,  all  these  in  one 

The  magic  bow  was  drawing  forth  its  last  quivering 
sounds  —  famous  among  prodigious  musical  feats — imita- 
ting the  precipitate  flight  of  the  witches  before  bright 
dawn  ;  of  the  unholy  women  saturated  with  the  fumes  of 
their  nocturnal  Saturnalia,  when  —  a  strange  thing  came 
to  pass  on  the  stage.  Without  the  slightest  transition, 
the  notes  suddenly  changed.  In  their  aerial  flight  of 
ascension  and  descent,  their  melody  was  unexpectedly 
altered  in  character.  The  sounds  became  confused, 
scattered,  disconnected  .  .  .  and  then — it  seemed  from 
the  sounding-board  of  the  violin  —  came  out  squeaking, 
jarring  tones,  like  those  of  a  street  Punch,  screaming  at 
the  top  of  a  senile  voice: 

"Art  thou  satisfied,  Franz,  my  boy?  ....  Have 
not  I  gloriously  kept  my  promise,  eh  ?" 

The  spell  was  broken.  Though  still  unable  to  realize 
the  whole  situation,  those  who  heard  the  voice  and  the 
Punchinello-like  tones,  were  freed,  as  by  enchantment, 
from  the  terrible  charm  under  which  they  had  been  held. 
Loud  roars  of  laughter,  mocking  exclamations  of  half- 
anger  and  half-irritation  were  now  heard  from  every 
corner  of  the  vast  theater.  The  musicians  in  the  or- 
chestra, with  faces  still  blanched  from  weird  emotion, 
were  now  seen  shaking  with  laughter,  and  the  whole 
audience  rose,  like  one  man,  from  their  seats,  unable  yet 


j 


138  NIGHTMARE    TALES 

to  solve  the  enigma ;  they  felt,  nevertheless,  too  dis- 
gusted, too  disposed  to  laugh  to  remain  one  moment 
longer  in  the  building. 

But  suddenly  the  sea  of  moving  heads  in  the  stalls 
and  the  pit  became  once  more  motionless,  and  stood 
petrified  as  though  struck  by  lightning.  What  all  saw 
was  terrible  enough  —the  handsome  though  wild  face  of 
the  young  artist  suddenly  aged,  and  his  graceful,  erect 
figure  bent  down,  as  though  under  the  weight  of  years ; 
but  this  was  nothing  to  that  which  some  of  the  most 
sensitive  clearly  perceived.  Franz  Stenio's  person  was 
now  entirely  enveloped  in  a  semi-transparent  mist, 
cloud-like,  creeping  with  serpentine  motion,  and  grad- 
ually tightening  round  the  living  form,  as  though  ready 
to  engulf  him.  And  there  were  those  also  who  discerned 
in  this  tall  and  ominous  pillar  of  smoke  a  clearly-defined 
figure,  a  form  showing  the  unmistakable  outlines  of  a 
grotesque  and  grinning,  but  terribly  awful-looking  old 
man,  whose  viscera  were  protruding  and  the  ends  of  the 
intestines  stretched  on  the  violin. 

Within  this  hazy,  quivering  veil,  the  violinist  was 
then  seen,  driving  his  bow  furiously  across  the  human 
chords,  with  the  contortions  of  a  demoniac,  as  we  see 
them  represented  on  medieval  cathedral  paintings! 

An  indescribable  panic  swept  over  the  audience,  and 
breaking  now,  for  the  last  time,  through  the  spell  which 
had  again  bound  them  motionless,  every  living  creature 
in  the  theater  made  one  mad  rush  towards  the  door.  It 
was  like  the  sudden  outburst  of  a  dam,  a  human  torrent, 
roaring  amid  a  shower  of  discordant  notes,  idiotic 
squeakings,  prolonged  and  whining  moans,  cacophonous 
cries  of  frenzy,  above  which,  like  the  detonations  of 
pistol  shots,  was  heard  the  consecutive  bursting  of  the 


THE    ENSOULED    VIOLIN  I  39 

four   strings   stretched   upon   the   sound-board    of    that 
bewitched  violin. 

AY  hen  the  theater  was  emptied  of  the  last  man  of  the 
audience,  the  terrified  manager  rushed  on  the  stage  in 
search  of  the  unfortunate  performer.  He  was  found 
dead  and  already  stiff,  behind  the  footlights,  twisted  up 
into  the  most  unnatural  of  postures,  with  the  "  catguts  " 
wound  curiously  around  his  neck,  and  his  violin  shattered 
into  a  thousand  fragments.     .     .     . 

When  it  became  publicly  known  that  the  unfortunate 
would-be  rival  of  Niccolo  Paganini  had  not  left  a  cent  to 
pay  for  his  funeral  or  his  hotel-bill,  the  Genoese,  his 
proverbial  meanness  notwithstanding,  settled  the  hotel- 
bill  and  had  poor  Stenio  buried  at  his  own  expense. 

He  claimed,  however,  in  exchange,  the  fragments  of 
the  Stradivarius — as  a  momento  of  the  strange  event. 


THE    END 


There  is  no  Rc/igio?i  Higher  than  Truth 


THE 
UNIVERSAL   BROTHERHOOD 

AND 

THEOSOPHICAL  SOCIETY 


Established  for  the  benefit  of  the  people  of  the  earth  £5"  all  creatures 

OBJECTS 

This  BROTHERHOOD  is  part  of  a  great  and  universal 
movement  which  has  been  a&ive  in  all  ages. 

This  Organization  declares  that  Brotherhood  is  a  fact.  Its 
principal  purpose  is  to  teach  Brotherhood,  demonstrate  that  it  is 
a  fact  in  nature  and  make  it  a  living  power  in  the  life  of  humanity. 

Its  subsidiary  purpose  is  to  study  ancient  and  modern  re- 
ligions, science,  philosophy  and  art;  to  investigate  the  laws  of 
nature  and  the  divine  powers  in  man. 


The  Universal  Brotherhood  and  Theosophical  Society, 
founded  by  H.  P.  Blavatsky  in  New  York,  1875,  continued 
after  her  death  under  the  leadership  of  the  co-founder,  William 
Q^  Judge,  and  now  under  the  leadership  of  their  successor, 
Katherine  Tingley,  has  its  Headquarters  at  the  International 
Theosophical  Center,  Point  Loma,  California. 

This  Organization  is  not  in  any  way  connected  with  nor  does 
it  endorse  any  other  societies  using  the  name  of  Theosophy. 


The  Universal  Brotherhood  and  Theosophical  Society 
welcomes  to  membership  all  who  truly  love  their  fellow  men 
and  desire  the  eradication  of  the  evils  caused  by  the  barriers  of 
race,  creed,  caste  or  color,  which  have  so  long  impeded  human 
progress;  to  all  sincere  lovers  of  truth  and  to  all  who  aspire  to 
higher  and  better  things  than  the  mere  pleasures  and  interests  of 
a  worldly  life,  and  are  prepared  to  do  all  in  their  power  to  make 
Brotherhood  a  living  power  in  the  life  of  humanity,  its  various 
departments  offer  unlimited  opportunities. 

The  whole  work  of  the  Organization  is  under  the  direction 
of  the  Leader  and  Official  Head,  Katherine  Tingley,  as  out- 
lined in  the  Constitution. 


Do  Not  Fail  to  Profit  by  the  Following 

It  is  a  regrettable  fact  that  many  people  use  the  name  of  Theo- 
sophy  and  of  our  Organization  for  self-interest,  as  also  that  of 
H.  P.  Blavatsky,  the  Foundress,  to  attract  attention  to  them- 
selves and  to  gain  public  support.  This  they  do  in  private 
and  public  speech  and  in  publications,  also  by  lecturing  through- 
out the  country.  Without  being  in  any  way  connected  with 
The  Universal  Brotherhood  and  Theosophical  Society,  in 
in  many  cases  they  permit  it  to  be  inferred  that  they  are,  thus 
misleading  the  public,  and  many  honest  inquirers  are  hence 
led  away  from  the  truths  of  Theosophy  as  presented  by 
H.  P.  Blavatsky  and  her  successors,  William  Q.  Judge  and 
Katherine  Tingley,  and  practically  exemplified  in  their  Theo- 
sophical work  for  the  uplifting  of  humanity. 


The  International  Brotherhood  League 

(Founded  in  1897  by  Katherine  Tingley) 

ITS    OBJECTS    ARE: 

1 .  To  help  men  and  women  to  realize  the  nobility  of  their 
calling  and  their  true  position  in  life. 

2.  To  educate  children  of  all  nations  on  the  broadest  lines 
of  Universal  Brotherhood;  and  to  prepare  destitute  and  home- 
less children  to  become  workers  for  humanity. 

3.  To  ameliorate  the  condition  of  unfortunate  women,  and 
assist  them  to  a  higher  life. 

\ .  To  assist  those  who  are,  or  have  been  in  prisons,  to  es- 
tablish themselves  in  honorable  positions  in  life. 

5.  To  abolish  capital  punishment. 

6.  To  bring  about  a  better  understanding  between  so-called 
savage  and  civilized  races,  by  promoting  a  closer  and  more  sym- 
pathetic relationship  between  them. 

7.  To  relieve  human  suffering  resulting  from  flood,  famine, 
war,  and  other  calamities;  and,  generally,  to  extend  aid,  help 
and  comfort  to  suffering  humanity  throughout  the  world. 

For  further  information  regarding  the  above  Notices,  address 

KATHERINE    TINGLEY 
International  Theosophical   Headquarters, 

Point  Loma,  California 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

i£4UFORN^ 


Books  Recommended  to  Xnquirers 

For  complete  Book  List  write  to 
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Bbagavad -Gita;  (W.  Q.  Judge,  Am.  Edition)  pocket  size, 

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Red  1  eath  er 75 

The  pearl  of  the  scriptures  of  the  East. 

echoes  from  the  Orient;  (W.  Q.  Judge)  cloth 50 

Paper 25 

21  valued   articles,  giving  a  broad  outline   of  the  Theo- 
sophical doctrines,  written  for  the  newspaper-reading 
public. 

epitome  of  Cbeosopbical  Ceacbings,  Hn 

(W.  Q.  Judge),  40  pages 15 

Yoga  Hpborisms  (translated  by  W.  Q.  Judge),  pocket 
size,  leather 75 

Xsis  Unveiled,  by  H.  P.  Blavatsky.  2  vols,  royal  8vo, 
about  1400  pages ;  cloth ;  with  portrait  of  the  author. 
New  Point  Loma  Edition  with  a  preface.     Postpaid $7.00 

Key  to  Cbeosopby,  €be  ?  (H.  P.  Blavatsky).  New  Point 
Loma  Edition,  with  Glossary  and  exhaustive  Index. 
Portraits  of  II.   P.   Blavatsky  and    W.   Q.  Judge.     8vo, 

cloth,  400  pages.     Postpaid $2.25 

A  clear  exposition  of  Theosophy  inform  of  question  and 
answer-     The  book  for  students. 

f^igbtmare  Cales  (H.  P.  Blavatsky).  Illustrated  by 
R.  Machell,  R.  A.  A  collection  of  the  weirdest  tales 
ever  written  down  by  any  mortal.  They  contain  para- 
graphs of  the  profoundest  mystical  philosophy. 

Cloth  K0 

Paper 35 

Life  at  point  Loma,  Cbe:  Some  notes  by  Katherine 
Tingley,   Leader  and  Official   Head  of  the  Universal 

Brotherhood  and  Theosophical  Society 15 

Reprinted  from  the  Los  Angeles  Post,  Dec,  1902. 

Concentration,  Culture  of  (W.  Q.  Judge) 15 

hypnotism:  Cbeosopbical  views  on  (40  pages) 15 

Light  on  the  path;  (M.  C.)  with  comments, 

Bound  in  black  leather 75 

E mbossed  paper 25 


Mysteries  of  the  F)eart  Doctrine,  Che.  Prepared  by 
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Cloth $2.00 

Paper $1.25 

A  Skkies  op  8  Pamphlets  comprising  the  Different 
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Secret  Doctrine,  Che.  The  Syntbesis  of  Science,  Re- 
ligion, and  Philosophy,  by  H.  P.  Blavatsky.  New 
Point  Loma  Edition.  Two  Vols.  Royal  8vo.,  about 
1500  pages;  cloth.    Postage  prepaid $10.00 

To  be  reprinted  from  the  original  edition  of  1888,  as  published 
by  H.  P.  Blavatsky. 

Katherine  Cingley,  FHimanity's  friend : 
H    "Visit    to    Katherine    Ctngley    (by    John    Hubert 
Greusel) ; 

H  Study  of  Raja  \oq*  at  point  Loma  (Reprint  from 
the  San  Francisco  Chronicle,  January  6th,  1907). 
The  above  three  comprised  in  a  pamphlet  of  50 
pages,  published  by  the  Woman's  Theosophical 
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Occultism,  Studies  in 

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set $1.50 

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Vol.  5.  Esoteric  Character  of  the  Gospels 35 

Vol.  6.  Astral  Bodies;  Constitution  of  the  Inner  Man..     .35 

Che  path  Scries 

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The  Doctrine  of  Cycles. 

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Lotus  Group  Literature 

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The  Pith  and  Marrow  of  Some  Sacred  Writings. 

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erhood to  Christianity  —  No  Man  Can  Serve  Two 
Masters — In  this  Place  is  a  Greater  Thing 

Script  2.     Contents:      A    Vision     of     Judgment  —  The 

'Woes"   of    the    Prophets  —  The    Great   Victory  — 

Fragment;    from    Bhagavad    Gita  —  Co-Heirs    with 

Christ  —  Jesus  the  Man  (the  only  known  personal 

description) 

Script  3.  Contents:  The  Lesson  of  Israel's  History  — 
The  Man  Born  Blind  —  Man's  Divinity  and  Perfecti- 
bility— The  Everlasting  Covenant  —  The  Burden  of 
the  Lord 

Script  4.  Contents:  Reincarnation  in  the  Bible — The 
Mysteries  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  —  The  Temple 
of  God  —  The  Heart  Doctrine  —  The  Money  Changers 
in  the  Temple 

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—  Theoretical  and  Practical  Theosophy  —  Death,  One 
of  the  Crowning  Victories  of  Human  Life  —  Reliance 
on  the  Law  —  Led  by  the  Spirit  of  God 

Script  6.  Contents:  Education  Through  Illusion  to 
Truth  —  Astronomy  in  the  Light  of  Ancient  Wisdom 

—  Occultism  and  Magic  —  Resurrection 

Script  7.  Contents:  Theosophy  and  Islam,  a  word 
concerning  Sufism — Archaeology  in  the  light  of 
Theosophy  —  Man,  a  Spiritual  Builder 


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